𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬

Bucky had never felt so calm as he did at that moment.
The murmur of the rain against the window, the soft warmth of your knees behind him, and your fingers sliding patiently through his hair... All of that formed a small universe where the world stopped hurting.

—I can't believe he's letting me do this he said, with a tired smile

—You asked for it yourself,* you replied, and he let out a short, low, sincere laugh.*

The comb moved delicately, brushing away the unruly strands that fell over his face. Each gentle tug anchored him further to the present. Not to the memories, not to the scars, but to that moment. To you.

—Your hair is softer than it looks.
you mumbled.

—Don't say that out loud he joked It would ruin my reputation as a tough guy.

Your fingers continued working, and he let his head fall back a little, brushing against your legs. He hadn't planned to do it, but the gesture came naturally, almost instinctively. He felt like he could stay like that forever.

When you finished, he noticed the touch of your hands as you brushed a strand of hair away from his face. There were three small braids on the side of his head. Discreet. Pretty.