Summary: Bucky is extremely self conscious about his scars.
Word Count: 505
Warnings: Self conscious Bucky, fluff
Author’s Note: Requested by anon. Could I request one where Bucky is really self conscious about the scars around his arm? And eventually the reader figures out what his deal is and it’s real fluffy? GIF credit
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Bucky had come to accept a lot of things about himself, but the angry red scars on his shoulder and chest wasn’t one of them. They did nothing but remind him of the day he died, falling from the train while Steve was helpless to stop it. They made him remember the countless hours, days, weeks, months of torture, of the hack jobs HYDRA called surgeons and the numerous surgeries he was forced to undergo.
He did the best he could to ignore them, to look the other way, to always have them covered, but he could feel them, the pulse of blood under the thick tissue, the way his shirts would rub against them, irritating them. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of them, but no matter the technological and scientific advances Bruce and Tony discovered, nothing worked.
For every part of himself that Bucky hated, Y/N loved. Every mark and imperfection was beautiful in her eyes. He never let on how much he disagreed with her, how his scars repulsed him, but she caught on fairly quickly.
“Bucky, baby,” she cooed, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling around her waist. “Come to bed.”
With a resigned sigh, he dropped down, prepared to sleep fully clothed. Y/N’s hand was on the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, baring his back to her.
“Doll, no,” he argued gently, his voice thin and tired.
“I want to see you, feel you,” Y/N insisted.
He glanced at her over his shoulder and felt himself fall deeper in love. Never had he felt more safe, than when he was by her side. Nodding his head once, he reached back and tugged the shirt over his head. While she held up the sheet, he slid in next to her, his arm draping over her waist as she turned into him, their legs tangling together.
“Talk to me.” Her voice was whisper-soft, barely there, imploring.
His shoulder bobbed under her touch. “Nothing to say.”
She traced over his scars with her fingertips and nails, sending a wave of goosebumps down his chest. “I know that isn’t true.”
What could he say, that he hated something she accepted about him, that she loved? He shook his head with a sigh and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“They’re a part of you, your scars,” she breathed, now using the back of her knuckles to touch him. “They’re proof that you survived. You’ve been to hell and back, but, goddamn it, you survived, Buck.”
There were tears clouding his vision and clogging his throat. He never thought about it like that. All they did was remind him of the life he had lost. He had been so caught up in the negative, he never once thought about all of the positivity in his life.
She was smiling warmly, curving her body into his. “I love you, James, all of you.”
Dipping his head, he smeared a kiss to her lips. “I love you, too, doll.”
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