Harper: Quick! I need man advice!
James: Don't you have any girlfriends? I don't think I have anything to offer in that department.
Harper: No, I mean I need advice from a man! This guy from work, he works in the administrative department doing billing, just sent me a text and I think he's asking me out.
James: You think? How are you not sure?
Harper: Well, he's definitely inviting me somewhere, but I don't know if it's a date.
A screenshot of the text came through, and Bucky read it quickly.
James: Yeah, definitely asking you out.
Harper: How do I get out of this without being rude, but also without giving him any hope for a different result in the future?!
James: You really don't want to go out with him?
Harper: No, I don't. Analyze that later; I need to respond soon so it won't seem rude! And so he doesn't come to my desk for an answer in person!
James: Ask him if anyone else from the office is going. When he says no, it's seriously best to just kindly clarify that you aren't interested in him that way.
Harper: Fuckkkkkkk. Okay, thanks.
James: Let me know how it goes?
Harper: Sure thing.
A considerable amount of time passed without an update from Harper. He waited until well after he knew she would be home from work, giving her the benefit of assuming she had just been too busy to text him. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Harper hadn't ever told him about any male attention she received, other than from those who wanted to buy her time.
James: So?
Harper: The pity date has been declined.
James: What do you mean? Pity date?
Harper: He only asked cuz I'm the lonely foreigner. When I asked if anyone else was invited, he said it was just me, since I don't seem to have built many strong connections here.
James: I'm sorry, Harper. I don't understand why he didn't just invite you as a friend if that is the (misguided) way he feels.
Harper: Well, I asked because I was pissed. Turns out your social status skyrockets when you fuck an American girl. Ya know, since we're so wild and easy.
James: How did you get such a frank, disgusting answer out of him?
Harper: I think cuz he's just that much of an asshole.
James: You okay?
Harper: Peachy. But thank you for asking.
James: Try not to let one asshole get you too down.
Harper: I'm sick of being the foreigner who has no local friends, and the American piece of ass that's too fat to date but is good enough to want to sleep with, but only once. It's exhausting, and I miss my family and friends back home.
Bucky paused, chest tightening painfully. He couldn't stand how stuck Harper felt, or how unhappy she was with her body and the attention it got her. He wanted to give her a solution to her problems, but couldn't figure out a way to get her back home and on her desired career path without resorting to nefarious means. He wanted to tell her how physically attractive he found her, to assure her that he'd love her as many times as she allowed him to. But he had to be a friend.
James: Harper, you'll figure something out. This situation isn't forever. And there are most definitely men who would love more than a one night stand.
Harper: Thanks for trying to cheer me up. I really do appreciate it, even if my constant complaining doesn't show it.
James: You definitely don't complain constantly.
Harper: Thanks for saying so.
James: I don't feel right knowing you're feeling so down. Did you want to hang out?
Harper: Oof, sounds like another pity invite. I'm really okay, James.
James: If you're sure.
Harper: You'll be the first to know if I'm ever not okay. I know you have my back. You're good to me like that.
James: You reeled me in with how good you've always been to me.
Harper: Good night, ya charmer.
His body hit cold metal as he flattened himself against the train speeding along the snowy mountainside. Carefully, he pushed himself to his feet, keeping a wide, crouched stance for balance. He hurried after Steve, alert and observant of his surroundings, looking for any sign that their presence had been detected. Gabe took up the rear, gun already lifted into firing position.
Their comrade stayed atop the train, but he scaled down a ladder and threw himself inside the train behind Steve. His own gun was slung across his back, and he shifted it into his hands. There was a little bit of comfort to the weight in his palms. Steve led the way up the train, both on edge. Something wasn't right. There was nothing but cargo in sight, and not even much at that.
Just as Steve stepped into the next train car, the door automatically snapped shut behind him. He whirled around, bright blue eyes finding armed enemies which had been silently approaching from behind. He lifted the gun and immediately began to fire, his back pressed against the door separating him from Steve. The attack forced the opposition to take a moment to dodge, which he capitalized on, throwing himself behind a row of shipping crates. Bullets hit the wall above his head, shrill and piercing in his ears. He set his jaw, and let his body move as it had been trained to do.
The soldier stood from behind the safety of his makeshift barrier, returning fire. He ducked back down again, then the pattern repeated. He noticed one of the enemies using his comrades' attacks as cover for advancement. He kept an eye trained on the approaching man, waiting until he was just in range before pulling out his pistol and firing at the advancing enemy. He propelled himself to the other wall, hoping his own fire would be cover enough to cross through the entirely open space between the cargo stacks.
All of the enemies were down except for the quickly approaching one. To his horror, he soon found himself out of ammunition. The opposition was still advancing, and he had no way of defending himself. Shaking the weapon fruitlessly, he thought briefly of the life back home he had wanted so badly to make a quick return to.
The door between train cars opened. He whipped his head around, relieved to see Steve standing victorious from the battle he had just faced. His friend tossed him a gun before hurling himself through the door, shield first. Using all of his super strength and bracing himself against his weapon, Steve launched himself into the shipping crates, driving the heavy units straight into the closest oncoming enemy. The impact dropped his weapons from his hands and the soldier made one well place shot, killing the enemy.
"I had him on the ropes," he asserted.
"I know," Steve assured.
The whirring of a charging weapon came from behind them. The pair turned, seeing a man in a massive armored suit behind them, guns glowing with vibrant blue energy.
"Get down!" Steve shouted, pushing the soldier behind him and his shield. The shot rebounded off the vibranium, hitting the wall of the train with an explosion of heat, blowing a hole through the metal.
The soldier shook off the shockwave from the explosion, quickly noting Steve was down for the moment. He scrambled for the shield, covering himself and aiming his gun around its protection at the new foe. The enemy's gun recharged much quicker than he expected, firing another orb of bright energy straight at him. The shot made contact with the shield, the force of it throwing the soldier backwards. His gun flew from his hand and he was suddenly soaring through freezing cold air. His hands scrambled, looking for purchase on anything they could find. He grabbed a safety rail dangling from the side of the speeding locomotive, his grip like a vice.
"Bucky!" Steve shouted, panic in his voice.
The red, white, and blue clad soldier appeared, hoisting himself out of the blown apart train car. He used the neighboring rail to quickly climb his way toward the soldier. Heart pounding so hard he could hear almost nothing else, adrenaline rushing, numb to everything except for the feeling of his grip loosening on the rail as the train continued to speed through the snowstorm, the soldier desperately tried to hang on.
The rail shifted and creaked, beginning to break from its place. Steve hurried, extending his hand as far as he could reach.
"Hang on!" Steve shouted above the din of the wheels on the track and the rushing wind. "Grab my hand!"
His body shook, at the mercy of the rail that was continuing to shift.
"No!" he heard as the rail broke completely.
A primal scream tore at his throat. His body free fell through the bitter air, twisting and turning at the mercy of the wind. The world flew past, a blur of ghostly white and dark green pine. He registered almost nothing other than the greatest fear he had ever experienced and the knowledge that he was about to die. His body flipped backwards, and excruciating pain exploded in his arm and shoulder. His throat burned. He wasn't even sure if he was still screaming.
Bucky shot up in bed, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably, his stomach was in knots, and bile burned the back of his throat, threatening to make an escape. The fear that he had first experienced gripped him again. His heart was still racing, and he suddenly couldn't stand being still.
The former soldier stood quickly, pacing and anxiously rubbing at his metal arm. The phantom pain of his arm clipping the jagged cliff side and being shorn from his body burned him. Frantic blue eyes darted to his clock, noting that it was 12:53am. Going to bed early clearly hadn't worked out well.
He paced and paced and paced. Fifteen minutes passed and he didn't feel any better. He suddenly needed the comfort and stability only Harper had been able to provide him since being released from the Winter Soldier. Shaking hands found his phone and clumsily typed out a message.
James: Are you up?
Harper: I am. What's going on? Are you okay?
James: I had a nightmare. A flashback.
Harper: Text me your address.
James: I just wanted to talk.
Harper: Seriously, text me your address. We'll talk in person.
James: Not safe to walk here on your own.
Harper: I'm already out. Text me your address.
He gave in, his resolve totally shaken from him. Again, his body propelled into motion, pacing the living room. He wasn't sure how much time had gone by when there was a soft knock on his door. He pulled it open, stepping aside to allow Harper entry. He said nothing, and she simply muttered a soft greeting. Blue eyes followed her as she moved to sit on the old couch near his bed.
"James," she implored gently, patting the seat next to her.
He sat, still fidgeting and trying to get his heart and his mind to slow down. With anger he didn't mean, he demanded, "Why were you out so late?"
"I got my period and needed tampons," she answered, unfazed by his snappiness. "Couldn't wait until the morning. Now, point me toward your bathroom, and while I'm gone, set your kettle to heat up."
He jabbed his index finger in the direction she needed then mechanically stood and made his way into the kitchen. Harper disappeared into the bathroom, emerging only a few minutes later. From the small paper bag she had brought in with her, she pulled a box of tea.
"Go sit," she said, opening up the box.
He obeyed, feeling some sick comfort in the familiar feeling of doing as he was told and allowing that numbness to set in. The dark haired man watched the younger woman locate two mugs from his sparse collection of eatery and set them up with steeping tea bags. His eyes traced her form, at times mesmerized by the simple, steady motions of her hands, and at times pupils blown wide at the thought of his mind drifting to nothingness as he chased his release inside her.
Her return to the couch brought him more fully into the present. He accepted the mug, but merely rested it against his knee.
"Want to talk about it?" she asked evenly.
"I flashed back to the ambush."
Harper nodded, recalling his mention of the event.
He swallowed thickly and expanded, "We were ambushed on a train. It was winter. Killed some people. But then an explosion knocked out the side of the train car and I got my ass throw out of it. I hung on as long as I could. Steve was trying to get to me. But it was so cold, and we were going so fast. I wasn't strong enough to hold on against the wind, and the rail I was holding broke off anyway. I fell for so long. My arm… Oh fuck!" he hissed, realizing for the first time that he was clad only in sweatpants and a loose sleeveless shirt. His eyes darted around, searching for anything to throw on to cover up the monstrosity that was a part of him.
A light touch at his knee froze him. Harper's hand gave a brief, comforting squeeze. Gently, she reasoned, "James, surely you don't think me fool enough to have not put it together that you have some sort of prosthetic? You don't need to hide from me."
"I hate this arm," he spat, glaring at the unwanted extremity that had taken so many lives. "I never wanted you to see it."
"I've touched it. You've touched me. Surely seeing it isn't more egregious?" He didn't answer, emotions a jumbled mess and his mind and heart still racing. Harper continued, "Can I touch you now?"
Blue eyes met bright brown. Her gaze was unwavering and so heartbreakingly concerned for him he couldn't stand it. He broke eye contact and gave a short nod. Slowly, Harper reached out toward him, her skin gently skimming the surface of the metal limb. Her fingertips trailed down his forearm before lacing through his own synthetic digits. He didn't return the gesture, but she held on nonetheless. Her warmth against his cool offered more comfort than he wanted to acknowledge.
"I'm sorry that you're feeling so much pain," she muttered. Her other hand slowly rose, catching a few stray tears on his cheeks. "And while I wish you didn't have to endure it, I'm grateful you survived and are here, feeling it, with me today."
His metal palm tightened sharply on her hand as a jolt of tight emotion shot through his chest. Harper didn't acknowledge his tight hold, and merely continued, "Drink your tea."
"What about Aslan?" he asked.
"I'll head back home first thing in the morning. He won't be alone any longer than he would be if I was at work right now.
"Thank you," he muttered, eyes finally falling closed and his body slumping with exhaustion.
"I've got your back," she promised.
"Thank you," he muttered. He obliged her and took a sip of tea, before setting it down on the floor. Harper sipped at hers before setting it down at her feet as well. Her hand never left his, and with the tea placed aside, she moved to sit beside him on the couch. She folded her legs beneath her and pulled their clasped hands into her lap.
"This okay?" she asked, squeezing his hand again.
"Yeah," he nodded stiffly.
"Can you feel my hand?"
"In a way," he replied. "I don't know how to describe it. I feel pressure and temperature, and I can feel pain, but I can't feel your skin the same way I could with my other hand."
"Give me the other one, too, then."
He reached out with his flesh hand. Harper took it with one of hers, running her thumb across the hills and valleys of his knuckles. Her other hand clasped his mechanical one a little tighter. He felt suddenly a little overwhelmed by her kindness and consideration; the fact that she was providing comfort to each hand in a way he could actually feel was almost too much.
"I'm sorry I freaked out and dragged you into my craziness," he muttered.
"James, I'm seriously here for you. I care about you, and we have a responsibility to the people we care about."
He chuckled dryly. "Using my words against me?"
"Absolutely," she nodded easily. "You've helped me shoulder my chronic pain and my recent resurgence of depressed moods. I'm here to help you shoulder your pain and your traumas. I may not be great at it, and may not always say or do the right things, but I want to support you as well as I can. I don't like to see you hurting, especially when you're hurting in silence."
Bucky felt a few more tears leak from his eyes. Exhaustion weighed on him. He was always a bit tired from lack of sleep, but this ran so much deeper. He was exhausted to his core. Years spent on the battlefields of the Second World War, being experimented on against his will, falling from the mountainside train, Hydra scientists sawing off the remnants of his arm, his brain being scrambled, cryo, innocent blood… it was all too much.
The former assassin leaned forward, resting his head on Harper's shoulder as he settled to lean against her side. His hands remained in hers. She said nothing more and neither did he. He was guilty of many, many things, and he still wasn't sure who he was now that he wasn't a playboy, a soldier, or an assassin, but he did know that Harper accepted him. Maybe that was all he was looking for.
A/N: So many thanks for the continued support. I'd love to keep hearing your thoughts as our duo grows closer. Also, just want to throw it out there that I don't know that the details of how Bucky's arm works are ever really confirmed, so all mentions of this are purely how I imagine it.