Mark On My Heart ~ (Y/N x Bucky Barnes) BOOK 2

*Your POV*

The cold is the first thing you notice when you open your eyes.

It clings to you, pressing deep into your bones, even beneath the thin blanket Bucky has thrown over you. Your whole body aches, your ribs, your side, the dull throb of the stitches pulling at your skin. But you're warmer, at least. Warmer than before.

You blink slowly as your eyes adjust, the dim light overhead buzzing softly. The bunker is quiet, besides the occasional creak of the metal walls and the faint shuffle of movement nearby.

Bucky. He's pacing near the far side of the room, his broad frame casting shifting shadows against the wall. His movements are slow and calculated, checking through rusted cabinets, flipping through the file he found when you first got here. He's still tense, even after everything.

You exhale softly, shifting slightly beneath the blanket. Pain sparks through your side, and a quiet, involuntary noise slips out before you can stop it. Bucky glances over immediately.

"Don't move too much." His voice is quiet but firm, like he expected you to wake up hurting. You ignore him as you press your palms against the couch and slowly sit yourself up, wincing as you do.

His sighs but expression doesn't change. He steps over to where you're sitting, kneeling beside the couch. He reaches for something, and a second later, he presses a metal mug of water into your hands.

"Drink," he mutters. "You lost a lot of blood."

You take it without arguing; the metal cool against your fingertips. The water is stale, but it helps clear some of the heaviness in your head. For a few moments, there's only silence between you. The bunker is still, the quiet stretching long enough for your thoughts to settle.

"Did you sleep?" You ask, glancing at him.

Bucky doesn't look at you right away. Instead, he focuses on re-wrapping a roll of gauze, his metal fingers moving with precise efficiency. "Didn't need to."

You tilt your head slightly, watching him. His eyes are shadowed, his jaw tight. He's been awake all night. You can tell.

"Sleep," you demand, taking another sip of water. Bucky exhales sharply, almost like a quiet scoff. 

"Too late now. We need to move again soon."

You ignore his reluctance and look down at the mug in your hands, running your thumb over the edge. "You don't have to do all this, you know."

Bucky stills, just for a fraction of a second. His fingers tighten slightly on the roll of gauze before he sets it aside. Then, finally, he meets your gaze. His dark blue eyes are unreadable.

"Yeah," he mutters. "I do."

There's something heavy in those words, something he's not saying. You don't push. Bucky settles nearby, sitting on the old coffee table, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

For a moment, you think he's actually going to rest. But then his gaze flickers toward a rusted cabinet against the far wall, something unreadable crossing his face. Without a word, he pushes himself up and moves toward it.

You watch as he pulls the door open, dust shifting as the metal groans on old hinges. He reaches inside, shifting through the scattered contents; old files, used medical supplies, and a box of something that looks like old rations.

Then he freezes.

"What?" You ask hesitantly. Bucky doesn't answer immediately. He reaches inside and pulls something out, turning it in his hands before setting it on the nearest surface. Your stomach twists. It's a half-eaten ration pack. Your chest tightens. "Is it old?" 

He doesn't answer right away, making your pace quicken, but his fingers tighten around the package before setting it back down.

"Not old enough."

The room feels colder. This place was supposed to be abandoned. But someone was here. Recently.

The bunker is silent. Too silent.

You exchange a glance with Bucky, your body tensing instinctively. He's already on his feet, moving toward the wall where his gear is. His movements are quick and controlled, but you can see it in the set of his jaw. Something's not right.

You barely have time to push yourself upright before he reaches for the singular lightbulb, twisting it with two fingers and taking it out of its socket. The room is swallowed by darkness, and your pulse pounds as the silence stretches. The only sound is your own breathing, sharp and uneven in the cold air, and Bucky quietly shuffling around.

All of a sudden, you feel a hand on your shoulder, making you gasp and jump.

"It's just me," Bucky whispers, fumbling around in the darkness, looking for your hand to help you stand up. "We need to get out of here."

Then, before you can do anything, there's a noise outside. Footsteps. Bucky moves before you can react, placing his metal arm lightly against your thigh in a silent command to stay down and not move.

You hold your breath.

The sound is faint, barely audible over the wind, but it's there. Snow crunching under careful, deliberate steps. Not an animal. Not the wind. 

A person.

You hear the slight shift of metal as Bucky grips his gun in his holster, his breathing steady and controlled. He doesn't move yet; he just listens as his other hand rests on your leg distractedly.

The footsteps pause.

You feel the tension rising in Bucky as his hand grips your thigh tighter. He's waiting. Ready for anything.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, the sound moves away. The crunch of boots against the snow fades, swallowed by the wind. You don't move for a while. Neither does Bucky.

Then, finally, he exhales slowly, barely more than a whisper in the dark.

"Let's go."