AN: So I have this great idea for the sequel and I wan't wait to write it. There's going to be SO MUCH development with all the relationships, specifically Mo/Bucky, Steve/Bucky, and Mo/Tony. I LOVE THE IDEA. This will be coming to a close here in the next 2-3 chapters, to be honest, because I want to end it clean and then pick it up again fresh. Can't wait for you guys to read the next one! I haven't seen anything like it on here.
For this story, especially with the progress Bucky has made, I feel like we're going to reach that good stopping point soon. Very excited. Enjoy this chapter! My goal is to have this story wrapped up by this weekend so we can all enjoy the new project! It'll be a lot more FUN, a totally different, separate idea from Bucky's recovery… you'll see.
Anyways, Bucky acts a lot like his old self in this one…
The periodic wakeup calls had turned out to be a better idea than she'd originally thought. Sure, they were annoying, and all she wanted to do was sleep through the night, but on top of eliminating the possibility of her dying in her sleep from the concussions (Tony's words, ever so charming) they also successfully kept her from slipping into any nightmares, which she had been frightened of. The wakeup calls woken both her and Bucky every two to four hours as they slept, and they'd kept him from having nightmares, as well. He'd been annoyed at first with them, but had eventually settled down.
Now, as Jarvis woke her again, she felt better rested. "I'm up," she mumbled as Bucky stirred beside her, groaning. "What time is it?"
"12:38 am, miss."
"What? How long have we been sleeping?"
"Around eleven hours, more or less."
She was resting on her stomach, one arm folded beneath her head, facing away from Bucky, who mumbled "shut up" beside her. She grinned and found that it hurt her face to do so, and she slowly, painfully rolled over so that she was face-to-face with him. They'd kept their distance while they had slept, though at one point they'd woken pressed back-to-back, but that was the closest they had gotten once Mo had rolled over fitfully and detached herself from her arm.
She found Bucky watching her, one cheek on the pillow, his nose wrinkled, one eye open. His hair was a mess, and she noticed that he looked much better. The bruises had faded, the swelling on his lips and nose having gone down. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled, stirring the hair around her face. He smirked a half-smirk, one side of his face still smushed into the pillow.
"Nice hair," he said. "I've never seen you first thing in the morning."
She glared. "You don't look so pretty yourself."
"I'm always pretty," he sighed, stretching his arms beneath him, catlike. He groaned, then adjusted his face on the pillow, one arm beneath his head. She was a little surprised at the joke, but took it as a good sign. "How ya feelin', champ?"
"Like a million bucks," she said dryly. With a wince she sat up, pushing the covers down; he'd made his way beneath them, too, and glared at her reproachfully, drawing the covers back up. She slowly stretched her arms and made to tie her hair back, but it wasn't without a good deal of protest from her still-exhausted muscles.
"How's the chest?" she asked him, referring to the bullet wounds.
"Fine," he said, tugging his shirt up to show her. Sure enough, the bruising had faded slightly, the ragged holes still angry-looking, but definitely much later in the healing process than they should have been. Her eyes widened and she blew out a breath.
"Impressive," she said enviously, and he smirked.
"Thanks," he said, "I've been trying to get back in shape, and—"
"Oh, shut up," she groaned. "You know that's not what I meant."
His eyes sparkled as he looked up at her, smiling, and she was struck by how oddly happy, how giddy he looked. It wasn't without the hints of darkness, but still. How could he be fine? She looked at him suspiciously. "What's got you so chipper?"
He shrugged one shoulder.
"Guess I'm just happy to be alive," he said, quirking his lips a little. He rolled his shoulders. "We're both alive."
"You're okay…?" she asked cautiously.
"I feel better than I have in a long time," he reassured her, that smile still in place. "Maybe all I needed was a good fight?"
"I doubt it," she said thoughtfully. She had a sneaking suspicion that the comment he'd made earlier about finally understanding that he and the Winter Soldier were the same being, not two separate entities, had something to do with it.
"I feel like my old self," he mused. "Whoever that is. I feel more like me."
"That's good," she said, settling back down beside him. "That's really good."
He stared at her. "Why aren't you happier?"
"I'm tired," she grouched, "I'm sore, everything hurts, I can't move, I had a meltdown that I'm not too proud of, and—"
"There's more?"
"And we haven't heard from Sam and Steve," she finished, looking into his eyes, and he nodded.
"Yeah," he said, "I been thinking about that, too."
She covered her face with her hands and he grabbed one with the cybernetic arm, pulling it away to look at her. He made a face.
"You really do look awful," he said, "jokes aside. I'm sorry."
"Why? You didn't do it." She'd been referring to the bruises and the split lip, but his mouth quirked.
"I know that I did," he said, and her heart skipped a beat. He gently touched the sore spots on her neck. "I remember. And I'm sorry." She held his gaze, waiting. "Don't look so tense," he said with a roll of his eyes. "I told you, I'm feeling better. I can handle it, just—don't lie to me."
"I'm sorry," she rasped, and he nodded.
"I understand," he said, "just stop treating me with kid gloves."
"Okay," she said, a little perplexed. He was handling all of this so well. It was strange, almost. She waited for him to say something else, do something else, and he rolled over with a roll of his eyes and a sigh.
"Go back to sleep," he said.
"Are you mad?"
"What?" He rotated slightly to look at her. "You're serious? No, just—go to sleep. I recover quickly. You don't. You look like you need it."
She glared at him. "You're too kind."
"Go to sleep," he urged, shaking his head. His hair was mussed. It struck her, suddenly, just where she was: In Tony Stark's tower, sharing a bed with the Winter Soldier. And his hair was a mess. She laughed, and it hurt to laugh, but she laughed. He gave her a confused look which, coupled with the hair and the face that he was in bed with her, made her laugh more.
"What?" he demanded.
"Nothing," she gasped, clutching her ribs. "You just—oh, god, this is surreal."
"You're a nut," he said, grinning slightly, sitting up. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you every few hours so the computer doesn't have to."
"Yeah," she nodded, curling up, still fighting giggles. He flopped back down on the bed beside her, switching off the bedside lamp, rolling his eyes at her. She sighed, settling down, moving around a little to get comfortable, thinking that she wasn't really tired enough to sleep. She was wrong. A few minutes in the darkness and her eyelids were drooping, and she was out.
When she woke again it was on her own, without anyone waking her. She stretched luxuriously, painfully, with a loud moan, and it was then that she noticed the bed was empty. The room was lighter, suggesting that it was daylight sometime. She sat up, gasping against the pain, and looked around for Bucky, but there was no sign of him. She got out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom and found it empty.
Their "room" was set up more like a hotel room, or an apartment. There was the bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living area. Bucky was in none of these areas. She hurried back into her bedroom and realized there was a note on his side of the bed. She snatched it:
Don't panic. Getting breakfast.
She placed a hand over her heart, relieved. She took a deep, pained breath, and headed into the bathroom to brush her teeth and clean up, noting that she really did look awful. The bruises had spread to beneath her false eye, and her jaw was an unusual share of purple, as was the bruise Bucky had left on her head.
She lifted up her shirt to inspect her ribs and groaned at the sight; splotchy red and purple, with a split in the skin, even shades of green in some areas. Not pretty. She washed her face gently, patting it dry with a soft towel, and heard the door opening. She headed into the living area to find Bucky, dressed in the same black sweats and tight red STARK shirt, his hair neater and in a low bun, with a pink box in one hand, two drinks clutched in the other, and clutching a donut between his teeth.
He set everything except the donut down. "Morning," he said. "You got my note?"
"Who are you," she asked, approaching him slowly, peering at his face. "And what have you done with Bucky?"
He glared at her. "You know," he said, "if this is the reaction I get when I do something nice for you, I'll just stop."
Still staring at him, she opened the pink box and found an assortment of muffins and donuts. She reached for one of the drinks and he stopped her, handing her hers. "Mine's caffeine free," he said, "just like you said." He leaned casually back against the counter, taking another bite of his donut, watching her with a smile creeping over his lips. His eyes sparkled.
"Thank… you…" she said slowly, and he pushed the box at her. Suddenly ravenous, she grabbed the closest thing with chocolate on it and climbed onto a barstool, sipping her coffee. She took a huge bite.
"I went exploring," he said. "This place has everything."
"I'll have to look around," she mumbled, "dunno how long we'll be here."
Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, looking worried. "I hope they're alright."
She looked up at him and they maintained eye contact for a while. She bit her bottom lip, then winced because it was still split and swollen. Bucky looked sympathetic.
"I'm so sorry," he said, and his voice was soft. "Everything that happened to you—it's all on me."
"Nah," she said. "Bad guys with guns used to happen all the time back in California. Just another day in the life."
He laughed appreciatively. "Alright, alright," he chuckled, but his eyes were still tense, only slightly, but she noticed. "I do want to thank you, though. For everything. And not just for digging bullets out of me, which is impressive, don't get me wrong. But for helping me with everything you've been helping me with. I know I haven't made it easy, and I'd have given up on me by now, especially after everything. You've been nothing but kind, and generous, and compassionate, and there's nothing that I can do to repay you for that. But I want you to know that the way I feel today—it's because of you. Today, and every other good day to come all comes down to you."
She was shaking her head, eyes lowered, her chest suddenly tight with emotion. After a moment she looked up and met his eyes again, and found him smiling gently, and looking at him, she knew that he was more himself than ever. She could picture him, the way he used to be, and she suddenly regretted that Steve wasn't here to see it.
"C'mere," he said with a sigh, shaking his head at how emotional she'd gotten, and she laughed a shaky laugh and stepped into his arms.
"You saved my life," he said.
His arms around her were gentle, avoiding her ribs, but he gave her a little squeeze and placed his hand on the back of her head, holding her to him for a moment with the cybernetic arm.
"As for Sam and Steve," he said, and his voice was tight, "They'll come back. But until then, it's you and me, sweet'eart. We'll get each other through it."
AN: Short little Mo/Bucky chapter. Still to come: Some Mo/Bucky/Tony, Mo gets her leg, maybe a little dancing, and Sam and Steve return.