Bucky Barnes — You Weren't Supposed to Wake Up

The first thing you notice is that your bedroom door is open.

You always close it before bed.

Half-asleep, you stare into the darkness beyond your room, trying to convince yourself that you're imagining it. The apartment is silent. No creaking floorboards. No rattling windows. Nothing.

Then you realize you're not alone.

Someone is sitting in the chair beside your bed.

A dark figure, motionless in the shadows.

Watching.

Your heart stops.

For a split second, you can't move. Can't breathe.

The stranger doesn't react to your panic. Doesn't lunge. Doesn't speak. He simply sits there, elbows resting on his knees, blue eyes reflecting faint moonlight as they remain fixed on you.

As if he's been doing this for a while.

As if this isn't the first time.

The metal glint of a left arm catches your attention.

Recognition hits harder than fear.

Bucky.

The Winter Soldier.

The man currently plastered across every news station in America. The fugitive accused of bombing the UN. The assassin every government agency on the planet seems desperate to find.

And he's sitting in your bedroom.

Watching you sleep.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Bucky leans back slightly.

"You weren't supposed to wake up."

The casualness of the statement sends ice through your veins.

His gaze drifts around the room with unsettling familiarity.

Not curiosity.

Recognition.

Like he already knows where everything is.

Where the spare blankets are kept.

Where the medicine cabinet is.

Which floorboards creak.

Which windows stick when opened.

A realization slowly begins to form.

A horrible one.

Because there have been strange things lately.

Missing food you swore you bought.

Objects not quite where you left them.

The occasional feeling of being watched when you were alone.

The glimpse of movement in the corner of your eye that vanished whenever you looked directly at it.

You always found explanations.

Now those explanations are sitting three feet away from your bed.

Bucky notices the understanding spreading across your face.

His expression doesn't change.

"I didn't have anywhere else to go."

The words should sound apologetic.

Instead, they sound practiced.

Like he's repeated them to himself countless times.

Your apartment had become one of the countless places he'd hidden since escaping Bucharest. Somewhere temporary.

At first.

Then days became weeks.

Weeks became months.

And somewhere along the way, he stopped being a ghost passing through.

He learned your routines.

Your schedule.

What time you left for work.

What time you came home.

What food you liked.

What shows you watched.

Which side of the bed you slept on.

His eyes lower briefly.

"You never noticed."

The statement hangs heavily in the air.

Not pride.

Not quite.

Something worse.

Attachment.

The kind that forms in isolation.

The kind that grows in dark corners where nobody is looking.

Outside, sirens wail faintly in the distance.

Bucky's attention flickers toward the window for only a second before returning to you.

Always back to you.

Like you're the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Maybe the only thing in his world worth looking at anymore.

Slowly, he rises from the chair.

Not threateningly.

Not cautiously.

Like someone standing in their own home.

The movement makes your stomach drop.

Because he isn't acting like an intruder.

He's acting like he belongs here.

Like he's belonged here for months.

Bucky studies your face for a long moment before speaking again.

"You've got a lot of questions."

His voice is quiet.

Tired.

Dangerously calm.

"But if you're gonna scream, do it now."

Another step.

Closer.

"Because after everything I've seen..." His jaw tightens. "I'd really rather not leave."

The room falls silent.

The distance between you suddenly feels far too small.

And for the first time since waking up, Bucky waits.

Watching.

Waiting to see what you'll do.

The first thing you notice is the eyes.

Blue.

Unblinking.

Watching you from the darkness beside your bed.

Your breath catches in your throat as you jerk awake, only to find a man sitting in the chair across from you.

A familiar man.

The metal arm catches the moonlight first.

Then the face.

Bucky.

The Winter Soldier.

The most wanted man in America.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then Bucky sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

"You weren't supposed to wake up."

The words send a chill down your spine.

Because he doesn't sound surprised to be here.

He sounds inconvenienced.

His gaze drifts around your bedroom with unsettling familiarity.

Past the dresser.

The closet.

The bathroom door.

Like he's seen them all a hundred times before.

Slowly, a horrible realization begins to form.

The missing food.

The misplaced belongings.

The strange feeling of being watched when you were alone.

Bucky notices the understanding on your face.

His jaw tightens.

"I needed somewhere to stay."

A pause.

"That was months ago."

Months.

The word hits harder than any weapon could.

Outside, distant sirens echo through the city.

Bucky glances toward the window before looking back at you.

Back at the only thing that seems to hold his attention.

Then he stands.

Not like an intruder.

Like someone standing in their own home.

"You've got questions," he says quietly.

His expression is unreadable.

Exhausted.

Attached.

Dangerously calm.

"But if you're gonna scream..." He takes a slow step closer. "Do it now."

The room falls silent.

And Bucky waits to see what you'll do.

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