The Edge of Tomorrow
The Edge of Tomorrow bucky barnes stories

drawing4ever Bucky Barnes and Dr. Mccoy are my loves
Autoplay OFF   •   3 months ago
When Bucky Barnes' arm gets blow off in Afghanistan, his mental state is shaky. Steve tells him that he needs someone to be with him to make sure he's okay. You just happen to be the girl that answered the ad in the newspaper.

The Edge of Tomorrow

Tap. Tap. Tap. Bucky's right leg moved up and down quickly, his combat boot heel hitting the room floor rhythmically.

His hair was disheveled, strands sticking out violently against his head, and his eyes where rimmed red.

A smart phone was clutched tightly in his hand, knuckles white, as he listened to Steve talk over the phone.

The next words that came out of Steve's mouth made Bucky want to smash the phone into a million pieces. A low growl traveled through the device and Steve sighed.

"Buck, you have no other choice."

No other choice. He was losing everything, his agency was now being snatched away. Jaw clenched, his leg came to a stop. "No, Steve."

He heard shuffling on the other side of the line. "Buck, I'm not gonna argue with you on this.

Just put an ad in the paper, if you don't have someone picked by the end of the month, you're going to the Center."

Bucky clicked his tongue as he exhaled. "Afghanistan blows off my arm and you're acting like they blew up my mind. I can take care of myself. I don't need anybody.

No one would even want to be in the company of a one-armed freak, anyway."

Freak. He's one of those now. The kind that mothers cover their children's eyes when they come across them.

The kind that would hear every tiny little murmur and cry of disgust that people threw as he walked by, because his ears were perfectly fine,

but his missing arm turned him into some sort of monster.

"You're not a freak, Buck, so stop calling yourself that." Steve's reprimanding tone bounced into his ear. "And this is exactly why I want someone to be there with you.

It's not right to leave you alone in this mental state."

Bucky scoffed. "Yeah, my mental state. You think paying someone to babysit me is going to help? 'Cause I'm gonna tell you right now it's not."

"They wouldn't be there to babysit you. They'd be there to help you and to bring you companionship, at least until I know you're okay by yourself."


How's companionship going to make his nightmares go away or make his sudden panic attack wisp into thin air? How's companionship going to make him stop telling himself horrible things?

How's it going to make him human again? All he wanted was to feel human again, but it's not like this companion is going to wash away years of war or bring back his arm.

Where were they when he was knee deep in bloodied mud, sloshing around in the trenches trying to protect their freedoms?

"I'm not putting out an ad, Steve. You can't make me."

"You're right, I can't. That's why I took the liberty of putting out the ad myself. If you don't have anyone for me to meet by the end of the month, you're coming to the Center.

End of conversation."

"Punk." Bucky breathed out just before Steve hung up.

He slouched in his seat, dread overcoming him. His blue eyes wandered onto the worn copy of The Hobbit sitting on his coffee table. He didn't need a companion, he already had one.

Grabbing the book, he ran his hand over the weathered cover before thumbing through the coffee and potato chip-stained pages. All he needed was a good book to take him away from all the chaos.

A world where he could imagine himself there as a warrior, with two arms, fighting mightily alongside the Company as they took on Orcs and Wargs, swords clutched tightly in their hands.

There he could be anyone, conquer anything. And all he wanted right now was to be anyone but himself.


You were doomed. So doomed.

Walking out of the office last week with fire in your eyes as you said to your boss, "I'm not working for you anymore,

'cause I can find someone who can appreciate my time way better than your skimpy excuse for a check every month.

" Seemed like such a grand idea until you realized you hadn't had any other jobs in mind. You were looking for a job, but nothing was piquing your interest in the slightest.

You were down to your last leg checking the newspaper ad section, of all places, to find a potential job.

The cap of your red sharpie marker was caught between your teeth as you circled an ad for a jailer position. At least that would be somewhat interesting. You'd probably meet lots of new people.

Criminals, sure, but that's what made it interesting. Your eyes flitted down the browned paper, your other hand sticking to the paper uncomfortably.

Just as you were about to set the paper down in a huff, your eyes landed on the last ad square. It was a simple one. A Nice Person Needed. Call xxx-xxx-xx for more information

Now that piqued your interest. You considered yourself a pretty nice person, well, you were friendly to everyone who deserved it.

Which was basically everyone except your scumbag of an ex-boyfriend Bradley. He completely burned that bridge and spread the ashes everywhere. It wouldn't hurt to call the number.

Maybe they just needed someone to talk to for a bit. You had plenty of time before you needed money for next month's rent. You just needed to find a job in a week.

Grabbing your phone, you carefully typed in the number, not wanting to screw up the number and end up calling some creepy construction worker with a bad smoker cough.

Checking the number one more time, your finger hovered over the call button. Biting your lip, you pressed down and brought the phone to your ear.

It rang a couple times before a smooth "Hello?" traveled through the screen.

"Um, hi. I saw your ad in the paper about needing a nice person. I was just calling to say I could help." You said hoping this was the guy who actually put the ad out.

"O-oh. Uh, trust me, you don't want to help me. I'm...scary." His voice was a soft baritone, and honestly, you could have fallen asleep to it.

"Look, I wouldn't have called if I didn't want to help. And you can't be that scary. You got like three eyes or somethin'?"

"Try a missin' arm, doll."

Your brain froze for a second at the way he said doll. You liked it. "So what? Do you need help carrying something?"

"You want to help me carry the weight of PTSD and inevitable depression?"

Wow. That wasn't what you were expecting to hear from his mouth, but okay then. "Well, I don't know how much I can do, but I can try."

You heard him sigh on the other side of the line. "Sleep on it. Call me back tomorrow if you really want a job helping me. I give you more details if you call me back."

"Wait, so will I be getting paid for this?" You asked sitting up straighter on the couch.

"Like I said, I'll give you more details if you call me back tomorrow."

"Okay then. Guess I'll talk to you tomorrow then."

"Just..." You could almost picture his exasperated exhale. "Just sleep on it. Don't make your decision now. Goodbye."

He hung up before you could say it back. You were so calling him back tomorrow. Looking into your kitchen, you shook your head. You didn't really feel like making anything today.

Guess you were having Chinese takeout tonight.


Bucky tossed his phone onto the coffee table with a sigh. Whoever was on the other end of the line was going to inevitably call him and he was not looking forward to that.

You didn't seem fazed that he was missing an arm though, so that was something. Bucky groaned. He wasn't exactly jumping for joy looking for someone to share his apartment with.

It had plenty of room, he just didn't want to share. But when did anyone ever care about what he wanted?

He was banking on you declining the offer once he brought up having to live with him and seeing him all the time.

That should scare off all the well minded people, so if he did find someone who was willing to live with him at least he'd know they're crazy.

He honestly wasn't expecting someone to call him so soon, but maybe this person was just desperate.

A sharp pain caused Bucky to squeeze his eyes shut tightly. He moved his right hand quickly to press against his left nub of a shoulder.

The pressure seemed to ease the pain and he let out a huff.

Images of the war flashed through his mind as his eyes stayed squeezed shut for too long and he shot his eyes open, a shaky breath leaving his lips. Why was he like this? He hated himself.

Absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt hated himself.

A/N: So, this was Dear Pain, I just changed the title. Did you guys like it? I also added a mood board just because. Anyway, hope you enjoyed

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