Summary: James “Bucky” Barnes comes from a highly esteemed lineage of vampire hunters. Being the newest generation’s hunter, he’s responsible for keeping the supernatural world a secret and ensuring the survival of humanity. After losing his arm in a hunt gone wrong, Bucky wants nothing to do with his preordained destiny.
Fighting alongside Bucky is his best friend and confidant, Steven Rogers, a priest with a direct line to the Vatican, and Bucky’s only saving grace. Can Steve talk some sense into his friend, convince him that the world needs him?
You’re damned, destined to spend the rest of your life sulking in the shadows, wallowing in your own self pity. Everything changes one night when you come face-to-face with Bucky Barnes. Will he save you or put you out of your misery?
Word Count: 1,456
Warnings for the series: Alternate universe, blood, gore, violence, language, possible smut, PTSD, nightmares, more to come as series continues
Author’s Note: The idea stemmed from this post by @itsstillnotwhatyouthink I hope I do it justice. Want a tag? Let me know. A huge shoutout to @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree for all of your invaluable help. I love you.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
If it weren’t for the nightmares, Bucky would be getting a solid eight hours of sleep, waking up refreshed and ready to take on the day.
They were always the same, never diverting from what had transpired that night, and just like every other night before, Bucky’s own screams woke him. He sat up, drenched in sweat, his legs tangled in the blankets, and a heavy dose of phantom limb pain. He pushed himself to the edge of his bed, head hanging, teeth grinding as he held onto his shoulder – well, what remained of his shoulder – and sobbed angrily.
Once his legs were disentangled, he stood and almost fell to his knees as pain roared through him. “Fuck,” he ground out, stumbling into the bedside table, knocking over the bottle of painkillers Dr. Banner had prescribed.
He dropped to his knees and snatched up the bottle, popping off the top with his thumb before dumping the contents onto the floor. Two white pills were plucked up and tossed into his mouth, swallowed without a drop of water, making Bucky grimace and cough. Using the bed for leverage, he hauled himself off of the floor and trudged into the bathroom. The shower was turned on as hot as it would go, and after stripping out of his boxer briefs, Bucky stood under the stream of water, wincing at the needle-like feeling on his scars.
God, his scars. They were thick, puffy, and red, taking up the entirety of what remained of his shoulder, even going so far as to invade his left pec. He hated them with every fiber of his being, wanted nothing more than to have them gone, but he hated the metal prosthetic even more.
Stark had a design within the first month, and a working prototype less than six months later, but Bucky wanted nothing to do with either Tony, nor the prosthesis. It was Steve that was finally able to convince Bucky to give it a try. Six months of intense physical therapy later, Bucky could do almost everything he could before. He still preferred to go about his days without it, but he found that people looked at him with entirely too much pity when he was in public.
Thirty minutes after emerging from the shower, Bucky was dressed, the arm was attached, and he was doing some physical therapy exercises. Three silver balls were being rotated in his hand, using nothing but his fingers and the pad of his thumb. It was one of the harder exercises, but if there was one thing he didn’t do, was give up.
Oh, wait. That was exactly what he had done the second he realized the severity of his injury. He had screamed and cried, throwing things across the room, almost hitting the people that cared about him the most, people like Jarvis and Steve. But that was just the beginning. He was not proud of the way he lashed out, of the way he allowed himself to slip into the depths of depression. There were still days that he loathed getting out of bed and going about day-to-day activities, putting on that mask. It was exhausting, but those days were growing further apart.
Bucky sighed as his head fell forward, the muscles in his neck stretching, the knots protesting. The balls in his palm were set down so that he could work at the knots just below the surface of his skin. Having not been an active hunter in the past year, Bucky was out of shape, not badly, but it was probably time to start a routine, no matter how much he didn’t want to.
There was a knock on his door that made Bucky gasp. “Are you awake, sir?” Jarvis asked, poking his head into the dimly-lit room.
Bucky answered with a low groan.
“Would you like me to call in Miss Maximoff?” he asked at the sight of his employer, concern etched onto his face.
“You can call her Wanda, Jarvis,” Bucky chuckled, standing to face the man that had been there since he was a teenager, a watcher, of sorts. Though, Bucky’s real watcher, companion, and confidant, was Steve.
Jarvis tipped his head. “I could do, sir.” It was no use ‘arguing’ with Jarvis, he was old school, calling people ma’am, sir, and miss, it was just the way he was raised.
Bucky pushed out of the seat and gave a weary smile. “I would appreciate it if you gave her a call.”
“I’ll get right on that, sir,” Jarvis said, effectively excusing himself from the room.
The cell phone on the table started ringing, an out-of-country number, which could only mean it was from the Vatican. Bucky declined the call, sending it to voicemail knowing that he’d never receive a message notification. Who knew the Pope hated to talk to a recording?
With a scoff, Bucky tucked the phone into his pocket and made his way into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. For once, Steve wasn’t already there, holding a full cup out to his friend, a sly smirk on his face. It was their normal routine. Steve would come in, make coffee, and try to talk some ‘sense’ into his dear friend. He wasn’t sure what to do to fill the silence. Turned out, he wasn’t alone for very long.
Wanda strolled in, her long hair pulled out of her face, various rings on her long fingers, and a smile on her face. “Morning, James,” she greeted when he saw her.
“Wanda,” he hummed, hugging her and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You got here fast.”
“Vis said it was important. Are you alright?” Wanda inquired, looking up at her lifelong friend.
Bucky gave a half-hearted shrug. “Just some knots I can’t work out.”
“Let’s see if I can work my magic,” she said with a wink, her fingers wiggling back and forth in front of her face.
Fifteen minutes later, Bucky was lying on his stomach, wearing a sheet over the bottom part of his body, and Wanda was working a scented oil into his skin. Wanda might have been petite, but she knew how to really get in there and work out those deep-rooted knots, the ones that gave Bucky migraines.
He was hissing as she worked on the one in the crook of his neck. “Easy there, Wan.”
“Have you tried meditating like I’ve suggested?” she wondered, pushing up to her toes for more leverage. “Or yoga?”
“Kind of hard to do when my brain’s going a million miles a minute.”
Wanda huffed in irritation. “You need to do something.” She worked her fingers along his shoulder, her touch immediately turning gentle as her fingers grazed his scars.
Bucky had to work to keep from flinching, from pulling away under her gentle and prodding touch. It wasn’t that it hurt, not a lot, not really. It was because he felt ugly with them, because of them. He shouldn’t have had them. He wouldn’t have had them if he had just done his job.
He must have let his guard down, because the next thing he knew, Wanda’s hands were gone, and she was asking him, “Are you okay?” her voice gentle, as if he were a scared animal.
“Fine,” he ground out through his teeth, pushing up from the table, not caring that the blanket had fallen away. He had moved to grab his clothes, to cover his naked form, when the door was opened and closed quickly.
After getting dressed, he scraped a hand over his face, smearing away the tears with an angry groan. Besides the first week after losing his arm, Bucky had held it together for a year, he had kept his tears, his outbursts, to himself. Not even Stevie knew about them.
Pulling open the door, he found Wanda and Jarvis, his forehead pressed to hers, her hands on his wrists, and Jarvis was murmuring something to his wife. When Bucky cleared his throat, they turned toward him.
“I’m sorry, Wanda,” Bucky muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand. “I didn’t mean -”
Wanda was smiling and shaking her head. “It’s okay, James.”
“It’s not,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “I scared you.”
“Which is something you’ve done your entire life,” she admitted breathlessly. “As a hunter, a slayer, it’s part of who you are.”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. He really hated having this conversation “That’s not who I am anymore. I gave it all up.”
“Something you seriously need to reconsider,” interjected Steve.
“I’ve told you, Stevie -”
“There’s been an attack in Rome,” Steve announced, his voice thick, his eyes wet. “The Pope… he… he’s dead.”
THREE
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