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Bucky never thought he'd be back here again. The last time he'd been here, he'd lost everything. Sure, he'd gained the knowledge of where the Super Soldier serums were being produced and by whom but he'd lost so much more. This was where he had parted ways with you, his heart wrenched in two as you walked away that night, never once turning back.
His fingers trail over the banister on which you had leaned, remembering the way he had shouted at you, remembering the glass that had shattered on the floor, its fragments reflecting the broken pieces of himself. He feels a lump form in his throat, tears pricking the corners of his eyes and pulls away from the spot at which his life came crashing down.
Exhaling deeply, he stares out at the setting sun, wondering if coming back here was a mistake. Honestly, he doesn't even know why he's here. Maybe the lawlessness of Madripoor pulls him away from the burden of being a Congressman, however short that stint had been. Maybe despite it all, he still longs for you, and a small, delirious part of him hopes that coming back to this place will bring him face to face with you once again. He isn't sure whether he wants to see you again. He's afraid that if he does, all he'll feel is the pain of heartbreak and he'd rather avoid that, but at the same time he wants to lay eyes on you, feel his heart flutter in his chest, fall in love all over again.
He heads away from the warm orange glow and into one of the many small streets blanketed by shadows. Graffiti dances across the walls, pointing him towards an unassuming door that serves as an entrance to a bar. A front, he recognises, for some shady operation and tugs the cap on his head lower before walking in. It would be bad if he were spotted here, he isn't even supposed to be in Madripoor in the first place, and he's a politician. Former politician.
Nobody pays him any mind, they're all too busy drinking and smoking the night away. He's walked into a den of vices, the image that comes to most people's minds when they think of Madripoor but this is the way people here survive. In this land where the ruthless rule, people desperately search for ways to escape, and this bar provides many. It's a haven in which people can forget about all their troubles, and a playground for those who seek to make a name for themselves.
His gaze flicks around the bar, looking for signs of the true purpose for this place. It's well hidden behind neon lights and loud music, the smell of liquor overpowering everything but it has all the hallmarks of an underground fight club. The bartender fiddles with something underneath the counter, subtle bulges conceal hidden weapons and a good number of customers bear the same tattoo on their neck. There are at least three groups in this small bar, and his fingers twitch, moving towards the concealed gun he has on his person. This bar is akin to a bomb ready to go off at any moment, if the restlessness of its customers is anything to go by.
Then he freezes. He would recognise the pendant anywhere. A dark purple fang attached to a black and red rope string, sitting around a neck bearing a scar that runs from the chin to the collarbone. Sharp eyes flash dangerously as light glints off the steel blade of a knife, and then the bar explodes.
It's a familiar sight, watching you tear your way through a group of enemies. Haunting golden eyes flicker for a moment before fading back to their original colour and you twist the wrist of your foe so hard it snaps. The knife falls from the injured hand and you catch it before it falls to the ground, slamming the blade into its owner's neck. Blood gushes forth and you laugh, wrenching the weapon out.
The bar has stopped to watch the fight, bets going around as opportunity seekers grab the chance to make a quick buck. Bucky remains where he is, far enough from the fight so as to not draw attention but near enough to see what's going on, and step in if necessary. From the looks of it, you have things handled, like you always do. He finds himself drawn to the way your muscles flex with each strike, the ease with which you dodge and weave your way through your attackers, every punch and kick a calculated move. The fang pendant flies through the air, bouncing off your chest with every punch you throw, every dodge you make.
There's not a single wasted bit of energy in your moves, just like how you were taught. You fight like you're dancing, newly acquired knife flashing out in glints of silver and your enemies fall like dominoes. It's a bloodbath, a deadly whirlwind of death and you're at the center of it all, as you always are.
You were raised to be the finest weapon on this earth, a Hunter who always caught their prey no matter how far they tried to run, and this was your element. No matter how hard he tried to pull you away from all this bloodshed, you naturally gravitated towards it, as if you were born to walk this crimson path. There's this light in your eyes, a light that only ever shines when you're fighting to the death and your lips are curved into a wide grin. He knows you've surrendered yourself to the thrill of the fight, the beast within taking over. He hates how conflicted he feels whenever he watches you fight, he knows the fight is where you belong, but he also wants to show you that there's more to life than just fighting. He wants to show you peace, a mundane life where the only thing you need to worry about is where to go for dinner but he knows you don't quite fit in.
Are you tied to this life you never chose all because of Hydra? Had Hydra doom you to a life of nonstop fighting since birth?
The thoughts race through his head as he watches you slice open the throat of a burly man, laughing like a maniac as you whirl around, a bullet grazing the skin of your cheek. You throw the knife in your hand, the weapon burying itself in the gunman's neck and he collapses to the ground, choking on his own blood.
"Anyone else?" You smirk, pushing your fringe out of your face with a bloody hand as you look around the bar, five dead men at your feet. The crowd shuffles nervously, parting as you make your way back to the counter. Bucky's gaze follows you, chest tightening when your eyes met his for the briefest of moments but you look away just as quickly, gesturing at the bartender for a drink.
He uncurls the metal fist that has unconsciously formed and focuses on the glass in front of him, ignoring the way the tips of his ears burn. He forces himself to look away from the counter, but he knows you're there, and it's getting harder to pretend like you're not. He can't help it, he needs to know if you're still mad at him, he needs to know if your relationship can ever be repaired. He needs to know if you will ever go home with him.
His metal fingers dig into the table, carving deep gouges in the wood as he bites his lip, catching himself each time he lifts his head to look in the direction of the bar counter. He wants nothing more than to go over and speak to you, but he doesn't want to fight in front of others. He knows it will come down to a fight, the fire that burns within you will allow for nothing less.
"You look familiar." A hand rests on his shoulder. He tenses, slowly looking up at the figure who leers at him. "The Winter Soldier. Congressman now, are we?"
"Former." He calmly points out, turning back to his drink. Trouble always has a way of finding him, even when he does everything he can to stay away from it. The grip on his shoulder tightens painfully and he moves, metal arm whirring to life as he aims a punch at the figure's face but another fist beats him to it.
The figure's nose breaks with a loud crunch and he collapses to the ground, groaning. A pair of familiar eyes meet Bucky's and narrow but turn away as its owner kicks the moaning figure to one side before facing the bar.
"I'll carve up anyone who tries anything funny with my boyfriend."
Boyfriend?
Bucky feels his breath caught in his throat and his hand moves of its own accord, reaching towards you, mouth opening to ask you a question he hasn't quite managed to form yet when you turn back to him, coldness in your gaze.
"Outside. Now." The words are spoken quietly but resound clear as day in his ears. His hand drops back to his side and he nods, rising to his feet. You walk towards the door, him sticking closely behind as stares follow you both until the door shuts with a soft chime from the bell.
"Why are you here?" You demand, hands on your hips as you whirl around to face him once the two of you are a good distance away from the bar.
"I wasn't looking for you, if you were wondering." The words spill forth before he can catch himself, banter instinctively rising to the surface.
"Good. Didn't want to see you anyways." You close the distance and grab him by the collar, slamming him against the nearby wall, eyes flashing golden. His throat bobs, flesh hand moving to grasp yours and his knee moves, connecting with your stomach, or it would have had you not let go moments before and moved sideways. "You still haven't explained why you're in Madripoor."
"It's my business, not yours." He throws a punch which you dodge and blocks your oncoming fist.
"You're in Madripoor, that makes it my business." You aim a sweeping kick at his legs.
"So I can't be in Madripoor?" He moves out of the way, grateful for your lack of knives and aims for the back of your knees, foot connecting with the joint.
"Nobody comes to Madripoor without an ulterior motive. What's yours?" You recover swiftly, pushing off the wall behind you to throw a faster punch. He redirects your attack, bringing his elbow up to slam into your chest but you sidestep, pushing his elbow away.
"Madripoor has something of interest to me." It's a vague answer, and does nothing to dissuade your suspicions. He grasps your wrist, pulling you towards him before flipping you over his shoulder. Your back connects with the floor, eliciting a grunt from you.
Your eyes flash golden as you roll out of the way. "And what is that thing of interest?"
"Nothing important to you." He aims a punch at your face with his metal fist and you duck underneath the swing, sending an uppercut his way which he manages to dodge by a hair breadth.
"It's in Madripoor, it concerns you, it's of importance to me." You press your attack which he blocks with his forearms and his knee comes up again.
"I guarantee, it's not." In all honesty, he's not sure if you see it as important but he can't bring himself to admit weakness. He's afraid that you'll leave him broken again, shattered into pieces just like the glass of champagne that night.
"Can't guarantee anything if I don't even know what it is." You move to the side, avoiding his knee. Your punch lands this time around, splitting open his lip.
"Is our relationship important to you?" He blurts out and you freeze in your tracks.
"Aren't we done?" Your fist uncurls, voice breaking. "You said it yourself that night."
"I — " The words are caught in his throat. He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing. It's frustrating, the whirlwind of emotions tearing him up on the inside. "I want to give you a second chance, but I don't know if you'll take it."
"Why?" You whisper, eyes desperately searching his.
"Because — because despite it all I love you." He turns away, swallowing hard. "This was a mistake, I'm heading back — "
"Wait!" Your fingers curl around his arm, squeezing tightly. He stops, turning around to look at you, ice blue eyes filled with a myriad of emotions. His lips part slightly, blood crusting around the wound and he exhales softly.
"I — " You begin but then stop, unsure of what to say. "I um…"
His gaze softens, his warm flesh hand resting on your hand that's gripping onto his metal arm in encouragement.
"If you really will…have me back then um…" You scratch the back of your neck with your free hand. "I…I can give it another shot."
Bucky's eyes light up, the warm fuzzy feeling returning to his chest. A grin spreads across his face, his heart thundering when you turn your palm, intertwining your fingers with his. It's as if he's fallen in love with you all over again, his heart yearning to beat next to yours, his skin burning when it comes into contact with yours.
He believes in second chances, it's the only reason he can stand here, offering it to you. Steve never gave up on him, not for anything in this world and he won't give up on you either. Even if Hydra has stolen a peaceful life from you, he will never stop doing all he can to give you one. It's the least you deserve, and the least he can do after everything you've done for him. He can't overlook the blood you've spilled, but he can help guide you along the path you struggle to stay on.
"I can't be the person you envision me to be." You give his hand a squeeze. "I can't be the normal significant other you see on the streets, read about in books, see on television and film. I don't know how to lead a mundane life, but I will try, for you. I can't guarantee anything, I can't guarantee that I'll stop fighting, that I'll stop killing, but I can promise to try. I can promise to try to be better, to break away from what Hydra conditioned me to believe, and I'll do it for you."
"That's all I needed to hear, Y/N."
"Also I'm…sorry. For that night. For hurting you. I…never apologised for that." You shift anxiously.
"Apology accepted. I'm sorry too, for snapping at you." He smiles softly. "Shall we head home?"
"Home. Yeah, that sounds good. Haven't had one in a while."
His thumb brushes over your skin, a comforting gesture he hasn't had the chance to do ever since that night. He relishes the touch, the familiar ridges of the scar on the back of your hand from where a knife had sliced through flesh and sighs, contented.
The last time he was here in Madripoor, he'd lost you. This time around, he's found you, and he's never going to lose you again.