A/N: Thinking about posting a separate short Bucky short-story style fic I've had written up on my computer for a few months now. I was reading through it, editing, a few nights ago and thought: "Maybe someone would actually read this??" Still not sure. It's a cutesy/angsty OC fic about Bucky falling in love with a sweet but super dangerous Hydra girl while also struggling to overcome his own issues with being wiped and weaponized. Lots of drama, fluff, fight scenes, and smut promised. If anyone has any thoughts on that let me know!

-Winnie

Words: 2.9K

Life hasn't always been easy for me. Hell, I can't really think of a time that it's been anything other than hard. Some days are harder than others. Some nights I cry. But now at least I've got a purpose. I've found a family, and that's all I can ask for. I've found them through the Avenger's Initiative. SHIELD tracked me down and said I'd be good for the cause. I asked them why exactly they would need an Empath on their team. That's when they pointed out how useful one would've been before Civil War. If someone had been there to monitor their thoughts, feelings, emotions and help balance and mediate amongst them, there wouldn't have even been a war.

So that's how I found myself here. I've got a room right next to Bucky's so that if he ever has one of those terrible episodes in the night I can help, because I'm the only one who will really know what he needs, and because he trusts me more than a lot of the others. Steve's room is the only other one in this hall. Steve seems to like me, too. I try not to pry on his emotions. That'd be rude. But I know people well enough to read their faces and their bodies. And from the few times I've accidentally felt his head; I know he'd consider me a friend.

It's snowing tonight. It's a rare night in December where everyone sleeps in their rooms in the tower: not a single one of them is gone on a mission or trip. I'm the only person who never leaves. I stay here, where I'm needed, for whenever one of the team members needs me.

Someone knocks on my door. I call out over my shoulder without setting down my paintbrush. I hear the soft paddling of bare feet onto my hardwood floor before the soft cough that signals Bucky Barnes.

"Do you need something, Bucky?" I ask softly. The soft whistling noises of my brush against the canvas as yellow paint smears is soothing.

"Can I come in?"

I turn my head back to smile at him. I gesture him closer. "Of course. My door's always open for you, James."

Bucky nods with a hint of a smile. Hands in his pockets he shuffles closer. He's in a pair of sweatpants and a tight t-shirt. He hesitates before sitting down on the corner of my bed.

"It's okay; go ahead." I give him my back for a moment more while I get rid of my painting tools. I hear him take a seat.

"You can keep painting," I hear his soft, silken voice tell me.

I raise an eyebrow. "You don't want me to...?" I hint towards my abilities of soothing wild emotions—fear and hate, mainly. Sadness is much harder to conquer, but I've managed to do it before. Jealousy is pretty easily manipulated, since it's such a shallow emotion, but it's seldom felt amongst the team members.

"No, no. I just wanted to see you." Bucky forces a small smile onto his lips. I know it's a lie.

"You're upset. Are you sure you don't want me to help, dear?"

Bucky shakes his head. His hands run up and down his thighs in a nervous habit as he lets himself look around my room. He's never been this calm when he's been in here before. "No, I'm alright. I need to learn how to fix myself, ya know? I can't always expect you to help me." He brings his blue eyes to my face once more. "But thank you for the offer."

"Alright." I nod. I pick up my brush again. Turning towards my painting, I question, "Then what brought you in here?"

I can feel his unsureness radiating off of him in broad waves. I almost blush along with him when I feel the embarrassment. "I—uh, I like being near you," Bucky admits in a croaky voice. "You're good company."

Lightly I laugh, "That's sweet, James."

"I really mean it," he goes on in that gravelly, sweet voice: like river rocks covered in smooth dark chocolate.

I smile back at him over my shoulder. "I know you do." I tap the side of my head with the wooden end of the paintbrush for emphasis. That's another thing my powers do without me ever having a say: detecting truth versus deceit.

Bucky chuckles—looking to his lap where his metal hand is cooped up with the other wrapped around it. "Right, right." When his pretty blue eyes flitter up to me again he smiles. It's a tired smile: one I see on the faces of the Avengers all too often (especially Bucky). "What are you painting?"

Eyeing the canvas, I reply, "It's going to be something yellow, that's all I know." I laugh lightly and go on, "It doesn't look like much of anything right now though, does it?"

"It looks a bit like a flower," Bucky responds. He tilts his head further to one side, adding, "Or maybe some type of bird."

"Painting was never a talent of mine." I make a couple more strokes with the brush before rinsing it off.

"I think it's nice," Bucky compliments. He scoots back a bit to get comfier in my mountain of pillows. "I'd hang it up." He crosses his arms behind his head.

"That's a lie!" I laugh.

Bucky grins. "Fine, I'd hang it up if it was from you—otherwise, well, I'd have no idea what to do with it."

"Well, in that case," I hum. I pick up the smallest of the brushes and dip it in black. In the lowest corner of the canvas I write, for James Barnes. He laughs when he sees what I've done. "There. Whatever it ends up being: it's yours."

Bucky's parched upper lip tilts upwards for me. "Thank you, Y/N."

He only stays around for another hour or so before leaving me alone again. I give up finishing my painting, not having been struck with any vivid inspirations, and lay down for bed. When sun rises in the morning so do I—stretching my arms over my head like the wisps of light that roam through my parted curtains. I wake and ready for the day: showering, dressing, and making my way downstairs for some breakfast. Maybe I'll have eggs and toast, I think with a hum on my elevator ride down.

Remember how I said that the night had been a rare occasion? One where all the Avengers are home? Well, that special occasion flows into this morning. It seems to have called for a makeshift celebration with hot coffee and bacon. The whole first floor smells of a greasy diner. But it's not the smells of heavy foods that overwhelm me: no, it's the heaviness of all their combined thoughts that really shakes me to the core.

Like I've just walked into a surprise-party style funeral, everyone engulfs me at once with their hidden grievances. Amongst the struggling battles of sorrow and acceptance comes staggering amounts of stress. Trauma has forced these people to bury their sadness. It's not their fault my mind digs it up for me to see: like an archeologist mining through the ruins of a dead man's grave.

I take a deep breath. It's a lot, I will admit, but I've probably handled worse. Just soothing Bucky's post-nightmare meltdowns alone are enough turmoil to keep me up at night. Nat's Red Room terrors haunt my dreams. Steve's melancholy heart, distantly crying for a life he lost in exchange for the one he has, brings tears to the corners of my eyes.

By the way I describe it you'd think these people were all sitting around sulking all the time. They really aren't: right now they laugh and chatter over breakfast treats while the TV plays cartoon reruns. Sadness is something that everyone has; it's always buried somewhere down beneath. Happiness can still thrive there, and today it's here in plenty. But for me, the misery is the most glaring emotion to be felt. It seeps deep into my bones.

"Oh hey, Y/N! Last to join the party!" Tony Stark can be heard calling for me.

My head whips up from where I've tilted it down towards the floor. I place the most convincing smile I can onto my lips. It doesn't reach my eyes, but Tony doesn't notice. He hands me a cup of warm coffee.

"Two sugars, one cream." He winks at me before strutting back towards the kitchen. "Want bacon?"

"Uh, yes please." My voice is hoarse but I push on. I see Bucky sitting at the kitchen counter with Steve beside him. They talk animatedly until Bucky's blue eyes catch sight of me. He smiles and waves me over.

I force myself to walk towards him. Not that I don't enjoy him, but for some reason my powers this morning are impossible to control. I can hardly separate my feelings from everyone else's that are littered around me. Clint, Nat, Sam, Bucky, Steve, Tony, Peter, Vision, and Wanda are all here. That's a lot of emotions. That's an insane amount of noise.

"Good morning, Y/N," Bucky drawls in that sweet voice. He sounds much better than he did last night.

"You too," is all I can manage as a reply. I take a long slurp of my coffee in hopes that the caffeine helps my grasp on things.

"You look real pretty today," Bucky quietly says. He sounds nervous. Maybe I could pick apart his surface level emotions more, or even his tone of voice, if I wasn't so concerned presently with keeping Steve's PTSD out of my brain. The man behind me reading the New York Times has no idea that in my mind I've got every one of his repressed anxieties gurgling between my eyes.

"Thank you," I reply cordially. Tony passes me a plate of bacon and I take it graciously. Maybe food will kick my power controls into full gear.

"Did you finish my painting?" Bucky asks—nibbling on some toast.

Wanda's at the table with Vision—talking about movies. Something is said about Pietro, her dead brother, and a bit of sadness bubbles up inside of her. To me it's like a tsunami of sorrow crashing down every pillar of stability I have left. I can't even bring myself to answer Bucky's question. I don't even remember what it was.

"Hey—hey, sweetie." Bucky's cool metal hand is on my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Have you ever been so afraid of something that you can't speak? Or how about when your voice gets snagged away with that empty-chested feeling that comes from being so heartbroken you can't think straight? That's what it feels like to be me right now, and it's harder than hell.

Steve notices something's wrong. "Y/N?"

"Just—just stop," I don't know if I'm talking to the people who are staring at me or the static noise in my head.

My breathing has become labored. I can hardly see straight. I need to leave before I make myself sick or worse—absolutely crazy.

I stagger out of my seat. Bucky's hand falls from my shoulder and he stares worriedly at me as I stumble on my bare feet. With the eyes of all the Avengers on me I try to leave the kitchen in the way I came. I hardly make it out the doorway before Dr. Bruce Banner appears out of the elevator. His presence is like that final straw that broke the camel's back—sending my legs crumbling at the weight of the metaphor. The demons he has swirling around his are the loudest of them all, hence why he's so quiet.

Collapsed onto my knees in the hall I don't expect the noises to ever stop. I'm drowning in them—gasping for air that my lungs can't reach.

Bucky's warm, familiar presence lights up in the space beside me. He doesn't say a word. What he does is scoop my limp, terrified body up in his arms and rise to his feet. Cradled against his chest he brings me to the elevator where we ride up towards my bedroom in peace. The farther away we draw from the others the softer the hard press on my head becomes, but the presence of the feelings still linger like the taste of garlic.

Bucky sets me on my bed before rushing off to my bathroom. He comes back moments later with a cool, damp washcloth and a cup of water. He helps me to take a drink before delicately patting my warm forehead.

"Thank you," I manage to croak.

Bucky only nods. He keeps softly stroking the skin of my forehead with the soft towel.

"That's never happened before," I mutter dejectedly. I pull away from Bucky's hand and he lowers it back to his lap with the towel still intact.

"I can't even imagine what it was like," Bucky says, "I know I was terrified just watching you shake and cry..."

"I cried?" I can only imagine how pathetic I must've looked in front of the team.

"In the elevator," Bucky explains. "No one else saw—you don't have to be embarrassed." It's like he read my mind. "Besides, you've seen us all at our worsts." He pauses to let me think about this. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

I shake my head. "No. They're not my sins to confess to." I close my eyes and try to will myself to feel something of my own creation. I can feel Bucky's deeper feelings, the ones of regret and despair that sprout from being with Hydra all those years before, and shudder. "I think I need to be alone."

Bucky nods—not at all looking offended. He stands up from the side of my bed quickly. "Okay. I understand." He squeezes my shoulder in his warm skinned hand before going on, "If you need anything though, you come let me know."

There I'm left alone for the rest of the day. I don't leave my room once for the next twelve hours. Mainly I stare at the wall and think, but at some point I get up to wander. And just as the sun goes down I find myself settling in front of the canvas covered almost entirely in yellow paint. I pick up a brush, delicately stroking, and replicating the pace of my strokes with my breathing.

It's past midnight when I knock on Bucky's door. I know he won't be sleeping; he's always awake these days.

When he opens the door, I realize that this day of solitude has helped me greatly. Because the very first thing I feel when my eyes land upon him in his sweatpants and shrunken hoodie is my own emotions: the feeling that he's the prettiest thing I've ever seen. My heart skips a beat and I breathe a sigh of relief to know that the skip belongs only to me.

"Hey, cutie. How are you feeling?"

I blush lightly with a smile. "Much better, actually." I reach down to where I've leant the canvas up against the outside of his wall. "I finished the painting, too." I hold it out towards him—laughing lightly at his surprised triple-blink.

"Wow—what? This is... this is actually really amazing," he murmurs as his metal hand gingerly grasps it by the frame. He holds the painting of the sunset out ahead of him to see before lowering it to get a glance at me. "You really did this?"

"I did."

Bucky raises a teasing brow. "I thought you said you weren't any good at painting?"

"I guess I just needed some inspiration," I reply softly. I push some hair that's come out of my messy bun behind my ear—noticing how Bucky's particularly electric blue eyes follow the movement.

"And where'd you find it?"

I shrug, not at all sure if I want to be honest enough to tell him. Then I let my guard down for a moment and get a soft whisper of his emotions. This time, for the first time ever in my life, the strongest emotion I feel from someone else isn't sadness, anger, or hate. It's love. Oh god, how beautiful it is to feel something so beautiful and pure radiating off of someone. It surprises me so much that for a moment I forget that the most shocking part of all is that it's Bucky's love for me.

I take a deep breath, not wanting to let him know what I've just felt. So I bring my eyes up to his and admit, "I thought about what I'd felt like when I woke up this morning before I broke down in the kitchen—the sun rising and looking so pretty out over the field. Then I thought about the first thing that I'd had on my mind when I woke up, which not surprisingly, had been you." Bucky's shock almost makes me giggle, but I carry on like normal. "And then I realized that those two things were very similar, the sunrise and you, both rising up after darkness to becomes something beautiful and warm. So that's where I got my inspiration: I got it from you."

Bucky, taller than I, gawks down at me wordlessly. His chest takes a heavy breath as he tries to realize what it is that I'm trying to say.

"Do you love me, James?" I ask aloud.

Bucky, showing surprise on his handsomely rugged face for a brief moment in time, suddenly smiles. "Took you long enough, doll." And while I giggle he reaches for my face with both hands—drawing me in for a long, searing kiss. His lips against mine are supple and soft: gentle in the initial assault before drawing more heated towards the end. Before he can fully pull away he's suckling gently on my lower lip. He grins as I whimper in his arms.

"Can I come in?" I whisper against his cheek—still halfway out of his open doorway.

Bucky kisses me once more before huskily replying, "My door's always open for you, babe."