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The first time the Scarlet Witch let me braid her hair was after my first mission. My fingers had been shaking and quivering like a leaf after that fateful day. My powers were nearly out of control as my mind made my digits tremble. The room became warmer at the added heat and Wanda knew I had to do something to settle my anxiety soon or the whole jet would go up in flames. She had come up to take my wrists in her hands and then used her own powers to poke into my head to try and help calm me. That's when she saw the memories of sitting in my little sister's bed as I braided her long hair and hummed to her; the only times in my life I can remember being at peace.

"You can braid my hair," Wanda said softly. From next to me Clint raised an eyebrow, and Nat did the same. They'd been trying to calm me down with their words for nearly an hour now but nothing was working.

So Wanda sat on the floor and took down her long brown locks—letting me take strands between my hands and twist them together in intricate designs. The air suddenly became cooler, and the jet was once again at peace. My mind was numb with relaxation and concentration. And when I finished the braiding session, we had landed home and I was smiling again.

Wanda started letting me braid her hair whenever I became too stressed. Then the missions started affecting me less and I needed fewer distractions, but she'd still ask me to do her hair every now and again. Then I was in Prague with Nat and Steve once and watched a little boy bleed out in my arms. That night I didn't sleep—instead braiding Nat's red locks into crowns and plaits that would've made any little girl green with envy.

And then came the Civil War. I took Steve's side of things and never regretted it for a moment. My only regrets were losing friends to the cause. But still throughout it all I made another friend; one called Bucky Barnes. He was introverted and strange, to say the very least, but Steve assured him that I was one of the best team members to be had so he took Steve's word to trust me.

There was one night in the deepest, darkest part of it all that I found myself particularly lost in the stresses of what we'd all become. I'd spent the day fighting my friends: people I'd grown to love as family. Nat was like a sister to me. Tony? There was one time where he joked he'd liked to be my adoptive father. But then it all turned to ruins. I was sat broken on the floor of an abandoned warehouse with nothing left but the clothes on my back and the people who sat scattered all around.

"Y/N." I hear Steve say my name. I don't move my gaze away from the floor—only blink bit harder at his tone to let him know I've heard. "You did good today."

"Did I?" I question. The room, filled with familiar faces and some new, all tensed. They could feel the heat; seeping through their bones like wildfire and curling beneath their nostrils. "I gave Nat a third degree burn. That new kid? The one who sounded 15? I burnt straight through his suit to his skin. Tony's mask was melted, Rhodey was shot from the sky, and Vision tried to blow me up." I sit there in the wake of my little outburst with heat flaring up in my fingertips. I clench my fists to try and stop the burn. "It doesn't feel like I've done any good, Steve. It feels like all we're doing here is tearing ourselves apart."

I don't miss how Bucky shoots Steve a worried glance. There's sweat beading on his brow despite the frigid weather outside. Our little hideaway apartment is nearing 100 degrees.

"Y/N, I think you need to calm down ..." Steve tries to reason with me. He holds a hand out towards me.

I close my eyes. "I can't, Steve. You know it's not that easy." I push up from the floor. My hands leave ashen black prints where they burn the hardwood.

"Where are you going?" Scott calls after me.

"Away," I shout back over my shoulder. "I can't trust myself not to hurt any more of my friends." I say the last part under my breath, but I know they all hear me.

I stomp onto the balcony of the cheap motel. It's raining, unlucky for me. I hiss in pain as the first of many raindrops patters my boiling skin. For a moment I consider running back inside because of the pain, but then I realize that as long as I'm hurting, the heat doesn't come.

So I run into the storm.

I sit in the middle of the parking lot at midnight—body drenched and scabbing all over—while steam rises off of my flushed skin. The air stinks of smoke and every few moments a muffled cry comes out of my lips. Each drop of water brings on a new splintering pain. But I endure it, because I deserve it.

"Y/N!"

I grit my teeth. Ignoring Bucky's call of my name, I stay rooted on the asphalt.

"What the fucking hell are you doing?!" he sounds furious, but mainly worried. He knows what water does to me—he witnessed it firsthand a few weeks back when we'd been pitted against Black Panther in the streets and I'd had a fire hydrant burst just beside of me. His face had contorted in pure agony as my screams first reached his ears then. Now? Now I'm nearly silent in my misery.

"L-leave me alone, B-Bucky," I stutter.

Bucky appears above me. He's holding up a jacket to try and shield my body from the rain. He's drenched head to toe as I am; the only difference is that it doesn't affect him and his metal arm.

"We need to get you back inside before you kill yourself!"

"No, I won't d-die. This is the only way to s-stop me, but I w-will be f-fine."

"Bullshit." Bucky growls and tosses the jacket aside. Then he's grabbing me by the waist and lifting me into his arms. He runs us under the closest pavilion where the picnic benches and trashcans are. As soon as we're under the awning he sets me up against the wall. I'm so weak I can hardly keep my eyes open now. "Come on, Y/N. Don't do this to me." He pushes the wet hair from my face and starts trying to dry me with his warm breath and shirtsleeves. "We've been through too much for you to kill yourself now."

"I'm not going to d-die," I tell him again. I cough before going on. "It's just a little pain."

He settles down on his knees with his face parallel to mine. He carefully watches my pupils as they grow and shrink—my mind coming in and out of grogginess. "Hell right you're not going to die; or Steve would kill me, and I'd kill you."

I manage to smirk. "Wouldn't I already be d-dead?"

Bucky rolls his steel blue eyes. "Shut up," he mumbles. There's a shadow of a small smile on his plump lips.

I turn my face to cough into my arm. Blood is left on my shirtsleeve.

Bucky's face contorts with pain—which doesn't make sense, because he's not in any sort of physical distress. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. Steve should've never dragged you into this, and I shouldn't've brought us to this point to begin with..."

"This isn't your fault. There were cracks in the foundation," I sigh. "A little quake was bound to come through and tear us apart eventually." I close my eyes and whimper at the pain that is slowly starting to dull. "I just never thought I would have such a drastic part in it."

"It'll all be over soon," Bucky tries to reassure me. With the warmth that is slowly growing from my body his long brown hair is starting to dry. His cheekbones are sharp and high on his face beneath the bright blue eyes.

"And how is this supposed to end? With Tony dying? Steve? You?" I shake my head. "I don't want to see the end of this if those are my options."

Bucky tries to touch my cheek with his hand, but pulls away as my skin burns him. He grits his teeth but then quickly switches to his metal one—the aluminum taking no affect from my heated skin. Surprisingly, I like the feeling of his metal hand against my face. Even more shocking than that is that it's there in the first place; he never touches anyone with that metal arm of his.

"There's got to be another way. But no matter what happens, you have to know that you're going to be alright. You don't have to be so afraid of yourself."

"I hurt my friends," I breathe.

Bucky argues, "They hurt you, too. They came at you just as hard. It's not your fault you're a better fighter." He tries to give me a small smile. I nearly smile back because he's just so damn handsome.

Bucky goes on before I can say anything. "I know you're scared and feeling guilty. Steve told me you've had troubles controlling your powers when things get really rough. It's okay to ask for help. We're friends now, Y/N." He rubs his metal thumb along my cheek. His touch is ice-cold without being painful. It's soothing. "I didn't think I'd care for any of Steve's friends very much, but I really do care about you. You've sacrificed a lot for Steve and me. So if you need anything, I'm here for you."

My eyes open and I realize now that I'd closed them to the soothing tone of his voice. I look up into his face, his pretty face with the trimmed facial hair and the scars he earned today fighting T'Challa and the others, and I'm overwhelmed with adoration for the man.

"Can you do one little thing for me, Bucky?" I ask softly.

Bucky nods without a doubt. "Anything."

I feel a bit sheepish and silly, but I know it will help. "Will you let me braid your hair?"

Bucky blinks, looking rather confused. In my smile he finds my sincerity and slight anxiety in expectance of a denial. He nods though; smiling a bit himself.

"Steve said you might ask that." Bucky sits down fully on the ground. "He also said it's too bad that Wanda's not here. But I don't really mind being your volunteer."

I crawl around Bucky's body until I'm seated at his back. I'm already dry now, and so is he. My anxieties are already getting the best of me. It's still raining, but luckily we're safe and dry.

"You really don't mind?"

"No. Not if it helps you." I can sense a bit of hesitance in his voice. He's not used to people touching him—especially when his back is turned. He must really trust me.

Gently I bring my fingers to his hair. I start by slowly combing them through the locks to test the waters. Surprisingly, the chestnut tresses are clean and soft. He smells a bit like metal and laundry soap, I think to myself with a smile.

Before long, I'm humming. It's not a loud or long song—just something that I remember from my childhood. Bucky's hair is nimble and pliant beneath my warm fingers. I can feel the airspace around our bodies drop in temperature. My posture relaxes while my mind focuses on the pleasant task.

For the first few minutes Bucky hardly moves. His fists are clenched and his body defiant. Then he starts slowly leaning backwards until his head is tilted towards me—beautiful, masculine neck exposed—and mouth parted ever-so-slightly. I don't really have any sort of destination in mind; all I want to do is to play with this pretty hair of his until I've calmed down enough not to hurt anyone else. But at the same time, I find myself enjoying this task for different reasons: like the sound of his breathing, the closeness of our bodies, my legs wrapped on either side of his waist, and the little shiver he gifts me with when my nails run along his scalp.

"I like your hair," I whisper softly.

Bucky pops open an eye to look back at me. "You do?"

I nod, still combing it gently. "Yeah. I do."

Bucky closes his eyes again. He shuffles a bit to get more comfortable between my legs. "Wilson keeps trying to get me to chop it off," Bucky says with a soft chuckle.

"No, don't do that." I smile a bit as I comb it around his cute ears. "I like it long."

Bucky says, "Then I'll keep it."

I'm not entirely sure if he's aware that he's doing it, but Bucky's flesh hand is holding my thigh that's slightly wrapped around his body. It's not until he starts pawing at my skin with his thumb that I know he's consciously doing it—drawing patterns with his thumb against my denim pant leg. It's soothing, but also... alarming.

"Bucky?" I speak softly. I watch the dark tresses fall between my fingers as I plait it down. I pull it all to one side, seeing his neck. His throat moves as he talks.

"What is it?" He swallows stiffly—I can see it.

Eyes half-hooded and mind numb, I lean closer until my cheek is on his shoulder blade and I can feel the muscles of his back under my chest. "Maybe this war isn't that bad after all."

Bucky's hand holds tighter to my leg. "And why's that?" His face, handsome and halfway illuminated by the cloudy night sky, turns to look back at me.

My fingers delicately curl into his hair again. "Because it brought you," I whisper. He hears it in my voice—he hears how much I need him.

Bucky's blue eyes roam my face. He looks for something in my stare before finally tilting his forehead back to meet mine. His body shifts and I close my eyes in peace. I let out a sigh when I feel his metal hand on my cheek again. His touch, so cold, is like ice against my fiery skin.

"Y/N... Y/N, I—I care about you... and I wanna be here for you," I feel his words fanning my lips. He's so close. I'm so at peace that I'm actually feeling a cool breeze settling against my skin. He kisses my forehead with a lingering touch on my jaw. When he pulls away, he reveals in a shallow voice, "But you can't trust me."

I open my eyes to gape at him. "Why not?"

Bucky pulls away—my hands falling from his hair. The heat is slowly, no—rapidly, returning to my skin.

"This war didn't bring me. I brought this war." He gently pushes my hand away when I try to reach for him again. "I'm sorry, Y/N. But—but I can't... I won't let you... I can't." With each stuttered word he shakes his head—brown locks swaying. Those ocean eyes are sandy with the freckles on his cheek and the mist that hangs along his lash-line.

"Oh. Okay." I take a deep, rooting breath and will myself not to be offended.

"Please just—just, be careful." Bucky stands and offers me a hand. I shake my head, staying on the ground. "Come on, Y/N," he breathes sadly.

"I'm gonna stay out here for a minute." I tell him. I look ahead of us at the abandoned, rainy parking lot. "I'll be fine now." My eyes travel up his tactical suited body to his face. "Thank you, Bucky."

Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek. "I can't leave you out here alone, Y/N," he argues gently.

"And I can't go back in there."

Bucky, eyes saddened and dull grey, lets out a long breath. He settles back onto the ground—noticeably farther away this time. He leans his back to the gazebo post behind him while I perch myself against one of the benches. I pretend not to notice his stare on me as I look ahead of us to the rain. It's not awkward, but it's certainly tense. Gone is the peaceful nature of our session before. And me? Well, I feel so much lonelier than I ever have before.

"I'm sorry." I close my eyes after I've muttered the apology into the air.

Bucky's melancholy voice sets a different kind of fire to my soul. "Me too, darling... Me too." 

I thought he'd be good for me. I thought maybe his ice could help my fire; help me cool, and perhaps I could keep him warm. 

I thought wrong.