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Leaving your book on the nightstand, you glanced at Bucky sitting in his huge black chair and silently reading some news on his tablet: he had finally learnt how to use it. You slowly got up from the bed you two shared and went to the closet to fetch a new set of pyjamas.
“I’m going to the shower”, you said quietly, not looking at the man behind your back.
How much time did it take you to turn back on him without shuddering? Oh God, it felt like ages. Months of advanced therapy under supervision of probably one of the best psychiatrists under Tony’s command. The other best one was treating Bucky, though using much more severe methods.
“I’m going to join you, if you don’t mind.”
If you don’t mind. These were some new words in Mr. Barnes’ lexicon, along with “can I”, “would you like me to”, “if you’re ok with it”, and so on. He started to ask instead of doing whatever he deemed necessary. He did not force you to do whatever he wanted anymore: it took Bucky as much time as you to stop flinching upon suddenly seeing him.
“Sure.”
You entered the bathroom, letting your hair down and gently massaging your scalp, and took off your comfy blue robe. You did not care whether Bucky sees you naked. You long past the point when showing your body to him or watching the man undressing himself made you scared and deeply ashamed. It was as natural as if you two had been living together for years.
You spent three months with him before Captain America, Bucky’s best friend, had found you. One day he wanted to make a surprise for his buddy and came to that bar where the soldier spent most of his time. But Bucky was not there. Although the bartender tried saying that he kept coming as usual, Steve felt that something was very wrong here. He suspected some changes in Bucky’s life – regardless of how hard his friend attempted to hide his suddenly jolly mood – and intended to gently uncover his secret. Steve could hardly imagine it could be a young distressed woman locked in Bucky’s house.
Opening the glass door of your shower cabin you carefully stepped in and turned on the water, not closing the door yet. You heard Bucky following you into the bathroom quietly, stripping himself off his t-shirt and sweatpants, and neatly folding them on the marble vanity top. In a few seconds he slipped inside the shower cabin, and you moved closer to the wall to give him more space.
“Is the water good?” You asked the man behind your back, reaching for the one of two bottles of shampoo on the metal shelves.
When he first dragged you here, there were tons of care products of any kind: Bucky didn’t know which one you used normally and bought whatever he could find. Along with bathroom shelves, your new cosmetics bag had dozens of expensive beauty products. He thought it would make you happier.
“It is. Thank you.”
He dropped all pet names he used before. It was probably one of the things his psychiatrist obliged Bucky to do, but you were thankful anyway. Now his words seemed more… sincere. Sane. True. They did not make you shiver or feel like running away. It was as if he started to treat you like a human person, not some hothouse flower that needed constant care and protection. Well, you did not mind the care part, but only when it did not involve depriving you of your own freedom. Maybe you were not totally free yet – you were living with him still – but these changes allowed you to have at least some control over your life. They gave you hope that one day you will fully recover.
You remembered what a mess Captain and Bucky made in the house once Steve understood you were held there against your will. Seeing two super soldiers fighting each other certainly was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but that time you did not really appreciate it: scared they would accidentally kill you in the middle of their battle, you hid in the corner of the bedroom, hugging yourself and crying. You prayed for Captain to win – was he not the strongest among humans? Was he not the one to always do the things right? He would protect you, you said to yourself and covered your ears with your hands at the loud sound of banging the door. Sadly, you did not take into account how precious you were to Bucky. He went berserk upon hearing Steve saying he should let you go.
When the sounds of fighting had ceased and bloodied Bucky came to the room to get you, you thought Captain America was dead. The Winter Soldier said nothing, and in a matter of hours you were in some stolen car racing towards Canada.
“Could you… wash my hair, please?” Bucky softly murmured, turning his back on you and staring at the steamed-up glass door.
Finished with your own hair, you silently reached for the second shampoo on the shelf. You poured the peppermint smelling liquid on your palm and make a step towards the huge man, humming some melody peacefully. Once you touched his scalp with your fingers, you sensed him relaxing, his scary muscles loosen up. Why did it feel like you were a husband and wife who lived in toxic relationships for years before going to a family therapist?
“You need to be more careful on your missions,” you said calmly, watching the new bruises, scratches, and scars on his back. Of course, he did always get checked thoroughly by S.H.I.E.L.D. medical team after each of his missions as any other Avenger, but watching him turning all black and blue did not bring you any pleasure.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
There was some hidden joy in his voice along with amusement: oh, Bucky still wanted you to love him more than anything else in the world, but he could hardly believe you had some good feelings left towards him. He could see it clearly now, after dozens of long and tiring sessions with Dr. Neuman, how terribly he treated you since the time you met. You did not deserve being forced. Manipulated. Told what to do. Threatened. These were all the things he did and thinking of them still hurt him painfully like a wound he could not treat.
You continued humming, gently pouring some water on the dark locks of his hair, and washing away shampoo bubbles. Your fingers untangled some hair strands of his, and you softly massaged Bucky’s scalp, almost making him purr in delight. Then you moved your palms on his broad shoulders and felt his enormous muscles tense under your hands; you rubbed some shower gel on his rough skin to make him relax again.
Weren’t you lucky Avengers found you on the second day of your escape after an encounter with Steve? If Bucky had managed to hide somewhere along with you, he would most likely keep his attitude towards you unchanged, and you would still be trapped in an apartment of some kind, listening to his every word. Well, technically, you were living with Bucky in his new apartment, but it was different this time – you were free to leave. It was up to you, not him. You stayed because Bucky’s therapy brought much better results once he was close to you, and Steve pleaded you to help. You were soldier’s only motivation to get better. How could you leave knowing that tomorrow Bucky would turn ax-crazy again? Would he kidnap someone else? Would he kill innocent people? Would he turn against Avengers as he turned against his best friend that time? No, you could not let this happen. Indeed, after so many months spent with him Stockholm Syndrome had fully kicked in, but your decision was a weighted one, nonetheless.
“I’m sorry.” He quietly said once you rinsed the shower gel from his back. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. I should have never…”
His voice trailed off as if it were physically painful for Bucky to continue. You stopped humming, pouring some warm water on his shoulders. Hearing him say sorry was… rear.
“I hope one day you will forgive me for what I’ve done.” The man muttered once he found his voice, and you watched him turning to you and looking at your face with a pained expression.
“Maybe I would.” You said calmly, turning the water off. You felt his heart racing and saw the pupils dilating: it was the first time you had ever responded to his words of regret.
Bucky rubbed his face with his palm, not able to stare at you in such a moment, and then forced himself to look at you again. He was visibly shaking.
“Is it… a promise? A long-term one maybe, but a promise?”
You quietly passed through him and got out of the shower cabin, taking one of your huge white towels and handing it to him.
“Maybe it is.”