bee :)

Bucky couldn’t stop the panic that rose in his throat. You hardly ever cried, and this wasn’t a happy cry; there was pain in your posture, fear in the way that you clutched at yourself. He pulled you tightly against his chest.

“Baby? Hey, sweetheart,” he said as steadily as he could, although his uncertainty snuck into his tone. “What’s wrong?” Continued sobs were your only response, and he soothed his hand along your arm. “Did you have a nightmare?”

You shook your head, tickling his face with your hair.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly because it killed him, seeing you like this. “Please, let me help.” There was another long pause as you tried to get your breathing under control enough to speak.

You hiccupped, then gave an attempt. “I…” But your voice caught again, and you had to pause. “I don’t want them to come back,” you finally sobbed. “I’m scared.”

The team was landing at the compound again tomorrow. Thanksgiving was a few days away, and the tour organizers had worked enough room into the schedule to give everyone a short break. Almost everybody planned to go their separate ways for the break, to spend time with their families, but there was some sort of catered dinner planned for the first evening back. But that was only one evening of intrusion; he still didn’t understand your tears.

“Why are you scared?” Bucky murmured against your hair. “It’s just a visit— it’ll be okay.” He pulled back slightly, surprised by the vehemence with which you shook your head.

“It’s not okay,” you whimpered. “They’re going to take you. And they’ll bring you back half dead again, or— or not at all—” You were cut off as the flow of tears started again.

“Baby, no,” he said, his heart sinking. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“They’re going to take you,” you repeated between sobs. Bucky hesitated— he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t go on any more missions. That was his job. But you knew that; you had no problem with his occupation. This was… something else.

“I… they’re not planning anything,” Bucky said slowly. “I’m staying here. There’s no mission.” His words had no effect on you. “And when there is,” he continued, “when I go on the next one, I’ll be careful. I promise. I’m not gonna scare you like that again.”

But you just cried harder and shook your head. “Everything’s going to change,” you cried.

Oh.

You rolled over to face him, your red, puffy eyes searching for his in the dark. “I just want to stay like this, with you.”

You weren’t only worried about this visit.

“I love you,” Bucky said as he pulled you against his chest. The words still felt strange on his tongue. New and unfamiliar, but natural. Honest. “Nothing's gonna change. Nothing that matters.”

He tightened his arms around your shoulders, cocooning you under his weight and warmth. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Eventually your sobs softened, and you drifted into a fitful sleep as the sky lit up pink. But Bucky’s thoughts were racing, his heart pounding too wildly to sleep. Maybe things wouldn’t change this time, this visit. But January was fast approaching.

Bucky stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you in the hangar while everyone unloaded from the jet. Bucky’s hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets, and yours fidgeted in front of you, your nervous movements causing the bracelet on your wrist to sparkle and reflect the light. Bucky wished he could grab your hand and comfort you, but the two of you had decided again: as far as everyone else was concerned, you were roommates. Nothing more.

Of course, some people knew— Parker knew for sure, and Banner knew something was up, and Steve… Bucky wasn’t entirely sure how much Steve knew. He knew there was something going on between Bucky and you. He knew that you slept in Bucky’s bed, and that you took care of him, and fought for him. He knew that Bucky needed you. But did Steve know the full extent— did he know that Bucky was physical with you? Did he know that Bucky had been reactivated by your touch, that you had done what Steve couldn’t? Did he know Bucky was in love?

And there was still the matter of Tony Stark and his mercurial authority, his disdain for Bucky and the fact that you were his paid employee— sure, Stark might be fine with the relationship. But he might not be. Your safest bet was to keep it under wraps as much as possible until your contract was up.

He only had to make it until January.

As soon as Steve’s feet hit the tarmac, he wrestled Bucky into a giant hug. Steve squeezed him so tightly he nearly choked, and Bucky would have laughed if he had any breath to spare; he was still awestruck every time Steve showed him that he wasn’t that sickly kid in Brooklyn anymore.

“You look good, Buck,” Steve said quietly as he patted him on the back. Maybe it was the green sweater you convinced him to wear, or maybe it was the genuine joy radiating from his smile. He’d been riding a high ever since your birthday, ever since those three words slipped from his mouth, exposing his truth and his heart.

And now his friends were back, and he was thrilled. Even though it was just for an evening, and even though he couldn’t tell them what had happened between the two of you, it felt good to have all the people he cared about in the same place. It felt like home.

Steve finally released Bucky, then turned to you with his arms open. You hesitated, your lips pursed, and Steve’s confidence faltered— but to Bucky’s absolute shock, you stepped up and into his arms. It was nothing like the way Steve hugged Bucky; it was quick and unfamiliar, the way someone would hug a relative they hardly knew.

Bucky still felt like a kid on Christmas.

Dinner went off without a hitch. The caterers had been busy since they arrived earlier that afternoon, and the spread they had set up in the tenth floor common area was impressive. Bucky sat with you on one side of him and Steve on the other, and by the end of dinner he had a serene smile permanently etched on his face. Despite how nervous you were, you were thriving surrounded by so many people, cracking jokes and listening to stories from the tour. Bucky’s heart and stomach were full— with Steve’s similar super-metabolism sitting next to him, he had been unashamed to go back for thirds. It was good. Everything was good.

By the time dessert came around people had begun to mingle, leaving their seats at the table to instead wander around the common areas and talk. The whole floor was bustling with people, full with all the agents and assistants who stayed to take advantage of the free meal and drinks, along with some more familiar faces. Somewhere in the dizzying commotion Natasha paused to compliment your skirt on her way to the bar, and Banner caught Bucky’s eye for a second before he hurriedly glanced away.

Bucky groaned internally. He needed to apologize to Banner, and thank him. But as he started to stand so he could follow Banner through the crowd, a large hand clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him back down into his chair.

Thor leaned down between you and Bucky. “I come bearing gifts,” he said, a mischievous lilt in his near-whisper as he glanced around. He patted Bucky’s shoulder once before walking around and taking a seat on the other side of the table. From beneath his coat he pulled a large, unlabeled glass bottle.

“The little one here piqued my interest the last time we were in town,” he said as he placed the bottle on the table. “So tonight, we will answer your question: can the two super soldiers get drunk off of Asgardian whiskey?”

Your eyes widened with glee.

“It’s not for mortal men—” Thor gave you a sideways look, and you held your hands up in surrender. “But you two aren’t mere mortals, are you?” He smiled at Bucky and Steve, one eyebrow raised in a challenge.

Bucky glanced at you. Those nights when you drank with him, when you grew progressively more tipsy but Bucky was only flustered by your attention— he had felt drunk, sure, but it wasn’t the real thing. He had vague memories of being drunk, but it had been decades— lifetimes ago. Back when he was normal. He chewed his bottom lip. He missed that, being normal.

“Ah, what the hell,” he conceded. “Steve?”

Steve chuckled nervously and looked away. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It’s been… a while.” When his eyes met Bucky's, they were sheepish, uncertain— Bucky was sure he was thinking of all the times they had drank together back in Brooklyn, all the excuses the alcohol had provided them then. But Bucky shrugged. Things were different now. They were different now.

“What’s the harm in it?” Thor wheedled, shaking the bottle temptingly. “Come on, Rogers. Loosen that tie a little.”

Finally, Steve nodded, and Thor poured them each a glass of amber liquid. There was something slightly off about it when Thor passed a glass to Bucky. The drink almost… glowed, and when Bucky held the glass steady, it swayed and sloshed for far longer than an earthly liquid would have.

Bucky and Steve lifted their glasses in tandem, clinked them together, and took their first sips. You laughed and clapped with delight.

“Yesss,” you said, full of the frenetic glee of a child locked in a candy shop. “Sloppy Sarge!”

Bucky’s face scrunched slightly as the taste hit his tongue. It wasn’t bad, just… different. The liquid tickled his mouth and esophagus as it went down, leaving a tingling warmth in its wake. He blinked.

“Whoa,” Bucky said. The gentle warmth transformed into a heat in his belly, growing and spreading and melting him. He was snow in the sun. Slush. Water. He closed his eyes.

“Isn’t it interesting—” a hurried voice came from across the room, and Bucky opened his eyes to see Banner rushing toward the group at the table. “Isn’t it— Thor, remember how we used this same fermentation process to create that pain medicine?” Banner was speaking to Thor, but he was looking directly at you with wide, panicked eyes.

“Yes, yes, a process used in Asgard for generations— don’t bore them with all of that, Banner.” Thor turned to Bucky. “It’s good, isn’t it, Barnes?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed as he blinked again. The ceiling lights had developed soft halos, and Bucky had to avert his eyes. Before he knew it, the liquid in his glass had been topped off. He took another sip.

“Thor,” Banner’s nervous voice continued. “Isn’t it interesting— wouldn’t you say that Asgardian whiskey has similar properties to the pain medicine we produced?”

“Undoubtedly so,” Thor said, but his answer was drowned out by your gasp. When Thor tried to refill Bucky’s glass again, your hand shot out to stop him, covering the glass.

“That’s… maybe that’s enough, for now,” you said, still staring at Banner. “Let him ease back into it, yeah?” Your voice shook. “It’s been decades.”

“Ah, you’re right, of course.” Thor set the decanter back on the table. “How are you men feeling?”

Bucky turned his attention to Steve. Steve had gone slightly pink, from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and at Thor’s question he only closed his eyes and giggled. Bucky giggled in response.

“Dr. Banner,” you said shrilly, trying and failing to mask the panic in your voice. “Did Steve have any… side effects from the medicine that day?”

Banner shook his head, and you exhaled slowly through your teeth. “No,” Banner said. “Right, Steve? The pain medicine just helped take the edge off for you?” They had to wait a moment too long for Steve to respond, but eventually he nodded, his eyes still closed.

“That’s good,” you said warily as both you and Banner turned to Bucky. “That’s good.”

Bucky blinked up at the lights again; the halos were moving, spreading and contracting, sparkling. From the corner of his eye he saw Banner sit down next to you, and you huddled close to him, whispering furiously. Eventually Banner stood and left, and you turned to Bucky with a worried look.

“Bucky, we should go upstairs,” you whispered as you glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

He frowned. “What? No, the party just started.” His words came out of his mouth correctly, he knew it— but they sounded wrong in his ears, slow-motion and muddled.

“Bucky—”

No, no, that didn’t make sense. Why would he go upstairs? All of his friends were here, only for tonight. And he felt so good. “Everyone’ll be gone tomorrow,” he said. “Please? Can we stay?”

Your lips pursed into a straight line as you studied him. Your gaze flickered to Thor, who was distracted by another conversation, then to Steve, who was sitting quietly with his eyes closed like a well-behaved child. Slowly, you nodded. But you still seemed uncertain, and Bucky didn’t like that, he didn’t like seeing you upset. He leaned in close to you. “Y’okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, your eyes lifting to his. “Are… are you?”

“I’m grand,” he said, and a wide grin spread across his face. You gulped.

Despite his growing warmness, Bucky was holding it together quite well, he thought. He smiled a bit more, and his cheeks had flushed to nearly match Steve’s, but nothing would point to him feeling anything more than a little tipsy. The auras that surrounded the overhead lights were overwhelming, though not entirely unpleasant, and with the way the voices around him blurred, Bucky was able to peacefully tune everything out. Instead he focused on the way his muscles had relaxed, how heavy his eyelids felt, how that ache that permanently marred his shoulder seemed to have lifted— and the heat. Of course, the heat.

He glanced at Steve occasionally, always finding his eyes half-shut and a small, demure smile on his lips. Steve giggled every now and then, though Bucky didn’t know if that was in response to something he heard or because of the tickling warmth of the whiskey as it sat in their stomachs. Steve looked nearly blissful, sitting there, but Bucky’s own smile was punctuated by the tiniest needle-pricks he felt deep in his abdomen. The sudden pain was searing, but it came and went quickly; he could mostly ignore it.

After a while, Sam managed to drag Steve to his feet and push him in the direction of the pool table. Steve looked back over his shoulder as he stumbled away, and finally found his voice. It was almost playful, and more relaxed than Bucky had heard in months. “Hey— hey, guys!” he called. “Hey, Buck! Come on!”

Bucky was quite happy where he was, lounged back in the chair his body had seemed to mold to. But you stood, and damn— he would never get tired of seeing you in a skirt. This wasn’t the same one that you wore that night at the bar, but it was almost as short and hugged your curves in all the right places. Bucky swallowed roughly. You had black tights on underneath, and he felt a hot pang in his stomach while he watched you hitch the skirt up to adjust them. He had to stifle a groan. You loved to tease him, to tempt him when he had to stay away, when he couldn’t touch you like he wanted to.

He wanted to.

He jumped up to follow you.

Bucky was sneaky about it, stealthy, as he walked up behind you. Sam was saying something to you— or to him, he couldn’t tell— but the words were slow motion and distorted, and Bucky just smiled and nodded. He wanted to touch you. He needed to touch you, but no, no hands— that would be too obvious. He needed to avoid temptation, needed to keep them busy— he glanced around and grabbed an empty glass off a nearby table with one hand, then stuffed the other into his jeans pockets.

But that prickling heat inside him was growing, stoked on by your honeyed words, your giggles, each toss of your hair. Your hair. It smelled so good, it always did. Maybe he could just…

Bucky leaned in toward you, inconspicuous-like, just a slight bend at the waist. His nose was just inches from the crown of your head and he inhaled slowly, deeply. Ahhh— he felt it in his belly, that fever as it grew, the flames licking at the base of his spine. But then— ouch— the sensation crossed the threshold from pleasure to pain, from a slight tingle to a sting, a throbbing cramp in his gut. He inhaled sharply at the pain, filling his nose with your scent again, and a surprised smile spread on his face when that pain eased into a toasty relief.

Bucky’s jeans pocket had become uncomfortably tight around his right hand; there was little room left in the fabric as the tent at the front of his pants grew. He knew he couldn’t take his hand out of his pocket— he couldn’t quite remember why, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to— but it was unpleasant, that restrictive snugness. He tried to rearrange, but when his fingers brushed against his shaft through the thin fabric of the pocket he had to stifle a shiver. That was good. For just a moment, the relief in his gut transformed into something more, something better. A decadent gratification. Maybe if he just…

Sam was still talking to you. Bucky watched Sam’s mouth moving, saw you nodding in front of him. He couldn’t understand Sam’s words, but he heard your gasp, and how you quickly turned it into a cough when he closed the gap and brushed his body up against you.

Yes. There it was, that simmering satisfaction that pulsed outward from his abdomen. He pressed against you again, but you stepped forward slightly, your voice wavering as you tried to continue your conversation. Bucky frowned. He didn’t want you to walk away, he didn’t want you to leave, he needed that pressure— so he took his hand out of his pocket and grabbed your hip, to hold you steady.

He felt your breath catch in the middle of your words; you forced the end of your sentence out before you turned back to him. You glared at him, your eyes like daggers even though your mesmerizing smile was still plastered to your face. “Can I help you, Barnes?”

“So pretty, baby,” he murmured into your ear as he stepped up to you again. “Make me feel so good.” He set the glass down— why was he holding that, anyways?— and tried to brush your hair behind your ear, but his hand had a mind of its own. It tousled your hair instead, making you blush as his fingers stroked down your cheek. You stood on your toes and leaned toward him, and Bucky shivered at your hot breath against his skin.

“Roommates, Bucky!” you hissed into his ear. “Banner said this might happen— we need to leave if you can’t behave.” You sounded angry, but Bucky knew you weren’t— you looked a little worried, but no, you couldn’t be worried, either. You were just so gorgeous, all mussed and flushed like that.

“M’behaving, baby, just feeling good. You’re so pretty like this, y’know?” he crooned, his lips making contact with your ear when you only expected him to whisper. He moved his lips down your neck, and barely noticed Sam turn away with a crooked smile and a shake of his head.

“You’re going to— we have to—” You couldn’t seem to string your thoughts into sentences while he sucked a mark on your neck. “Bucky,” you finally said, a bit forcefully, as you stepped away from him. You glanced around— now that Sam had left, no one was paying Bucky any attention. “Do we need to go?” you asked.

Bucky didn’t answer, just slipped his fingers up under the hem of your skirt, and you turned on your heel and marched toward the hall.

“Baby, baby, don’t leave me,” Bucky pleaded as he stumbled after you, but you disappeared out of sight.

He rounded the corner to find that you had stopped to wait for him. Of course you did, his best girl— and in an instant he had you pressed up against the wall, greedily slotting his lips over yours while he hiked up your skirt.

“Buck—” you panted between kisses. “You’re out of control— we need to go upstairs—”

No, no, no, he didn’t want to go upstairs, he didn’t want to leave the party— but what had started as relief when he pushed his hips against you had quickly turned into a smarting ache that grew whenever he wasn’t touching you.

“Listen, baby, listen,” he interrupted. “Just kiss me, okay? Need you to kiss me.” There was an urgency, a plea in his voice that unnerved you, and you melted against him, kissing him despite the worry that wrinkled your brow.

Bucky rutted against you again, his prominent erection poking your stomach, and you moaned into his mouth before you could stop it. “Fuck,” Bucky said, low, breathy, almost a whine. He needed you, now—

Those damn black tights— looked so good, but they were in the way— Bucky grabbed the fabric between your thighs and ripped a hole straight down the middle, leaving the shreds hanging from your legs. His mouth muffled your shriek, but you quickly pushed him away.

“Bucky! What has gotten into you?” You were panting, your eyes wide as you glanced down at the fabric he had ruined.

He frowned, still tugging the shreds of your tights away from your thighs. “Need you, sweets,” he said. “It burns— oh, look at you.” He had revealed your thong, black lace, and he shivered with anticipation— you had dressed up just for him—

But you furrowed your brows at him. “Burns?”

“Oh, god, yeah,” he whined, his eyes still on your covered core. “Everything burns, it hurts, baby, need you so bad.”

You hesitated long enough to regain his attention. “We can’t,” you said softly.

Bucky’s momentum came crashing to a halt as he felt his heart fragment off into shards, and he had to blink away moisture from his eyes. “You don’t want me?” His voice came out small, but then his face contorted and he nearly doubled over— the rejection was a weighted kick to his abdomen that drove those shards of his heart into his vital organs. He clutched at his stomach, digging his nails deep into the muscle.

“Of course I want you,” you said hastily, stroking his cheek to bring his eyes back to you. “Just not— we can’t, not here.”

“Then where?” he begged, his chest heaving as he straightened up. He didn’t want to leave the party, but he had to— he needed— “Where?” he rasped again, pulling you flush to his body. “Where can— where?”

But before you could reply, Bucky was gone, ripped from your arms and dragged several feet away by possibly the only man who had a chance of overpowering him.

“What the fuck?” you hissed. “Thor, get off of him—”

Thor paused and looked up; he had forced Bucky to the ground on his stomach, his right arm twisted behind his back. Thor was still wrestling with the vibranium arm, though it was clear Bucky wasn’t using its full strength; he was treating Thor as an annoyance, a pest to try to swat away instead of a true threat. Anger flashed in Bucky’s eyes as he fended off a particularly forceful grapple, but when his gaze met yours, his anger faded to confusion and betrayal.

“I’m afraid I can’t, little one,” Thor said, looking down at Bucky below him. “How fortunate we are that I sensed something was off. This degenerate,” he pressed his knee harder against the small of Bucky’s back, and Bucky whimpered, “seems to be having one of the rarer reactions to Asgardian whiskey— it’s a highly sought-after reaction, actually.”

His tone was unsettlingly conversational given the circumstances. “In the olden days, men used to drink this whiskey as part of a fertility ritual,” he continued. “If they happened to need a bit of… assistance, when trying to conceive.” Bucky struggled against him again, but Thor overpowered him with a grunt. “Enhanced virility isn’t a guaranteed effect of the drink, but to a lucky few it proves to be a powerful aphrodisiac— so you see, I’m simply defending your honor.” Thor looked up at you, smiling, but your focus was on Bucky’s hazy eyes.

Lines had formed between his eyebrows, and he grimaced; between the pain of Thor’s knee in his back and whatever burning sensation he had been talking about from the whiskey, his discomfort and disorientation were too much for you to bear.

“It’s fine, Thor,” you said quickly. “Let him go. I can… handle him. We…” But you trailed off instead of explaining, because Bucky’s face split into a huge grin at your words.

“She can handle me, all right.”

Thor looked at Bucky, then at you as a blush spread across your cheeks. “You’re sure?” Thor asked. “I can subdue him until it wears off, if need be.”

You nodded, and as soon as Thor loosened his grip on Bucky he scrambled toward you again. “Thank you, baby, thank you,” he murmured as he kissed down your neck, suckling at your collarbones, fully disregarding the scene he was causing. He had no attention left to give, could focus on nothing except that searing fever inside of him that was still growing, shifting into a staggering, devastating agony.

Thor chuckled. “I suggest you get to your room before things get out of hand,” he said. “I can assist you to the elevator, but no further, lest I become… involved.”

You tugged up the remnants of your tights and walked backwards toward the elevator, pulling at the waistband of Bucky’s jeans to direct him while Thor gently pushed his shoulders from behind. “Don’t worry, little one,” Thor said. “It usually wears off after a… release.”

“Thank you,” you gasped, tilting your head to avoid Bucky’s lips so you could still speak. “And Thor— could you not— mention this to anyone?”

He smiled and brought one finger to his lips, an oath of secrecy, before he turned and walked back to the party.

“It seems Barnes has fallen ill from the Asgardian whiskey.” Thor’s booming voice could still be heard from down the hall. “He’s gone upstairs to recover. Truly no man is immune.”

Inside the elevator, you pressed the button for the fourteenth floor and the doors slid shut. “Just you and me now,” Bucky husked. “Come on, baby, come on, gimme it, wanna see you.” He tugged at the neckline of your shirt until a button popped off, and you gasped. You pushed against his chest, hard enough to jar him into meeting your eyes.

“Do not break my things,” you scolded him, and a sharp sting pulsated under his skin at the rebuff. His face crumpled.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, I just need— it fucking burns.” His voice broke almost imperceptibly. “Everything in me, and I just know— I know if I—”

You reached for him, inviting him back to you, and he quickly pressed you up against the elevator wall and hiked your skirt up. But his hand hesitated, and his uncertain eyes met yours.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured. “Take what you need.” Your words were ecstasy surging through his veins and he shuddered, his head falling forward against your shoulder. He reached between your legs, groaning when he found the soaked-through fabric of your thong.

“Good girl,” he breathed, and he smiled crookedly when your hips squirmed under his touch, searching for pressure. “Ready for me, honey? ‘Course you are,” he answered himself with a pleased huff. “Always so ready for me.” He slipped one finger behind the fabric and drew it up through your drenched folds, teasing for a moment before he pulled his hand back. He lifted it to his face, examining the way his fingers shined, your arousal glistening in the light.

“Holy shit,” Bucky said dreamily. The corners of your mouth turned up at his wonder, and he returned your smile as he honed in on your lips— those lips, always so good to him. Slowly, gently, he pushed his slicked up fingers into your mouth.

“That’s right, good girl,” he murmured as you sucked his fingers clean. As if connected by a current, Bucky jolted forward, his hips finding yours to grind against. His cock throbbed at the motion, but there was something else— that knife that twisted in his abdomen because he still wasn’t inside you. He lurched, and his fingers pulled free from your mouth so he could grab his stomach again. Beads of sweat broke out at his hairline, and his hands shook. “Need you, baby,” he whimpered. “Need you so bad.”

A muddled moan escaped him when you quickly unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, because that friction from the fabric was both divine and excruciating. He gripped your thighs, handfuls of bare flesh that he squeezed— he liked that, it was good, made him feel good— and lifted you. With your back braced against the wall and your arms around his neck, you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist.

You muffled your surprised yelp when he shifted to hold you with only one arm— it jostled you a bit, but it was fine— and he used his free hand to grip the base of his cock. He nudged your panties aside, coating himself in your arousal in the process, and plunged into you in one motion. Your back arched against the wall as your breath caught, then escaped as a faint, satisfied mewl.

Bucky hardly noticed the noise, because he was too busy staring. The look on your face as he pushed inside of you— the shock, then bliss— it appeased whatever venom was inside of him, made it practically fucking purr. “Fuck, yes.” His words were too loud, but he didn’t care; they were quickly drowned out by the slapping sound of skin against skin.

Bucky’s motions were relentless, and the elevator creaked with each frantic thrust. Everything he felt earlier, all of the needles and knives and stinging, had gone, leaving only hedonistic pleasure in their place.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I can’t stop.” He was shaking with pleasure, groaning as you bit down on his shoulder, trying to keep quiet.

“Feels so good, Buck,” you whimpered against his skin. “Harder.”

He had died and gone to heaven, he was sure.

“Come for me, baby, c’mon. Need to feel it, feel you.” His right hand slipped down to circle your clit, and that was all you needed to push you over the edge.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped as you trembled in his arms. “Show me how good you are.”

You gripped his shoulders tightly, running your nails across his skin with enough force to leave deep red lines behind. Your thighs quivered on either side of him as the tension in your body reached a peak, and then it snapped— you cried out as your muscles convulsed.

There it was— Bucky’s balls tightened as he hovered on the edge, all thoughts gone from his mind except for this. This pressure, this feeling, those sweet sobs you couldn’t stifle through your orgasm. With one particularly tight squeeze of your cunt, Bucky came, his head bowed down against the crook of your neck to muffle his shout. Each throb, each pump of release inside of you relaxed that need, cooled the heat, erased his pain.

Bucky pressed his sweaty forehead to yours, panting heavily. When he finally caught his breath he released you, slowly lowering you onto your own shaky legs.

Your face was flushed, your hair tangled, and your hands trembled as you tugged down your skirt. “Are you better now?” you teased. “Got that out of your system?”

He was too busy grinning stupidly to answer.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah, baby, of course. All better. You make me feel so much better.” And you did. That pleasant warmth had returned to his belly, a smoldering campfire on a cool evening.

You narrowed your eyes, analyzing him for a moment. “Okay,” you finally said. “C’mon, put your pants back on— let’s go to bed.”

Bucky paused while zipping up his fly. “What? No. Everyone’s downstairs.” His hazy eyes met yours, his lower lip sticking out slightly. “We gotta go back to the party.”

You sighed and shook your head, but a disbelieving smile was growing on your face. You pressed the button to return to the common area, then scooped up the remnants of your tights from the elevator floor. When the doors opened, you stuffed them into a trash can in the hall before returning to the party.

“Ayy, there he is!” Sam announced as you and Bucky approached the group still gathered around the pool table. “You feeling better, man? Sometimes you gotta just let it all out.”

“I…” Bucky furrowed his brows and hesitated. He gave Sam a sideways glance— it was odd for Sam to say that so bluntly, when he had never talked to Bucky about sex before. But Sam was just smiling, waiting. “…Yeah,” Bucky said. “Much better.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Sam said with a chuckle. “Better out than in, that’s what I always say.”

“…Right.” It was strange for Sam to say it, but it was true.

Natasha looked at you with an innocent smile on her face that would chill even the bravest man, because Natasha was anything but innocent— “Weren’t you wearing tights?” she asked you, as if she didn’t know.

“Um… I was.” Your face was frozen, deer-in-the-headlights while you tried to come up with a sufficient explanation. Your hands crept down to your thighs to tug your skirt lower, to make sure it covered the fingertip-shaped bruises that were starting to form on your flesh.

“I ruined ‘em,” Bucky said proudly, ignoring your gasp. A stupid grin took over his face and he tried to meet Sam’s eye triumphantly, but Sam only looked confused.

You glowered up at Bucky, but nothing would swipe that smug expression off his face. “He… uh, yeah, he puked on them,” you said. “Had to throw them out.”

Sam winced, seemingly satisfied by that answer. “Told you not to ask,” he said to Natasha, but her coy smile didn’t falter. Bucky looked between them, his jaw hanging open because no, that wasn’t right—

“That’s not true— Baby, don’t lie to them, they’re our friends.” You gave Bucky a harsh warning glare, but it didn’t register. He stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around you, kissing your ear while you flushed red.

“Tell ‘em, baby,” he said, just above a whisper but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Tell ‘em how I ripped them off of you.”

“Oh, no— Buck, don’t—” You tried to shrug him off, to escape his hold, but he pulled you back to him. Natasha looked absolutely thrilled, but Sam still didn’t understand, he had to explain—

“Tell ‘em how we went upstairs,” Bucky said against your hair, “but I needed ya so bad, fuck, just had to take you right th— Steve! Hey, Steve!”

Bucky’s grip on you hadn’t loosened, but as you were twisting in his arms, trying to cover his mouth with your hands, he saw Steve from the corner of a squinted eye. Steve walked up behind Natasha and Sam, looking slightly less pink than before, although the color quickly returned to his cheeks when he saw the way Bucky was holding you.

“Stevie!” Bucky laughed, using his height to his advantage to dodge your attempts to silence him. “Oh, god, I have so much to tell you.”

“What do you want to tell Steve, Bucky?” Natasha encouraged, absolutely delighted by the whole situation.

“Ah, fuck, Stevie, remember how— remember how I was broken? In Wakanda, when we tried, I was broken?”

It took Steve a couple of seconds to process what Bucky was trying to tell him. He turned even more red, if that was possible, and nodded.

“Well, I’m not,” Bucky said gleefully. “Tell him, baby.” His mouth was against your ear again. “Tell him how I fucked all those pretty sounds outta ya—”

“Holy shi—” Sam said as he turned away.

“Bucky,” you begged, a horrified look on your face. Natasha’s eyes were wide with mirth, and Steve flushed fully scarlet as he covered his face with his hand. But Bucky wasn’t finished.

“God, I wish you coulda seen her, Stevie,” he said, a faraway, dreamy look in his eye. “She’s perfect, y’know? So good to me.” Bucky’s hands wandered as he spoke, squeezing at your hips, stroking up and down your sides, bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hands. He stared at Steve eagerly, waiting. For approval, for congratulations, for something—

“That’s… great, pal,” Steve said from behind his hand, with a muffled, embarrassed chuckle. He was trying and failing to keep his eyes on Bucky. They kept drifting to you, standing there fully mortified with your hand over your mouth, and the way Bucky’s hands gripped you greedily.

“Easy there, Buck,” Sam snickered. “We can see you.” But that didn't deter him in the slightest— he wasn’t sober enough to be embarrassed yet. He only let up when you elbowed him hard in the chest— not hard enough to hurt him, but he still looked at you with that kicked-puppy betrayal that made both Sam and Natasha laugh.

“So, is this, like, a thing?” Sam asked, gesturing to the two of you.

“Yes!” Bucky said joyously, but finally, finally, you managed to turn and cover his mouth with your hand.

“Shh,” you whispered close to his face. “Just— shut up, okay? Let me talk.” When you started to lift your hand, Bucky’s mouth opened, so you clamped it down again. “Bucky,” you warned. He nodded, and you slowly removed your hand and turned back to the others.

“Y-yeah,” you said to them, your voice shaky. “We— we’re—” But before you could finish your sentence, Peter came bounding up to the group.

“Whoa, hey! Hey, guys! It’s not a secret anymore? Hell, yeah!” He raised a hand to you, and you took a deep breath before giving him an exhausted high-five.

“What? They told you?” Sam asked incredulously. “Buck, I’m hurt, seriously— Steve, did you know?”

Steve just shrugged sheepishly, still unable to look away from Bucky and you. “Oh, come on,” Sam grumbled.

“Been telling you something was up with them,” Natasha gloated. “Didn’t you see them earlier?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Earlier today, yes. But how did you—”

But Peter’s exuberance had drawn attention from the surrounding groups, and a crowd started to gather around the pool table.

“What— oh, no. Oh, god. Not again.” Banner spun on his heel to face away from Bucky when he realized what was causing the commotion. He stood stock-still, taking deep, steady breaths.

“‘Again’!? Banner knew!?” Sam looked like this was painful for him.

“Well, kind of,” you tried to explain. “He—”

“Nope, stop there,” Banner said. “I’ve been working too hard to block that image from my mind. Not gonna invite it back now.”

Sam laughed. “Well, shit. I’m happy for you, man,” he said, and Bucky beamed at him. “And that would explain why you’ve been a lot less grumpy lately.”

But the mood changed instantly when Tony stormed over.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he seethed, and a hush fell over the crowd. “After everything I’ve done for you— the lawyers, the security, the parole— this is how you repay me?” Tony was close enough that Bucky could feel the heat radiating off of him, the fury. Bucky quickly stood in front of you before stepping back, forcing both of you away from Tony, but he followed, closing the gap.

“Hold on, Tony, wait a minute” Sam said, stepping up to stop his advances. “You’re upset with Bucky for getting laid?”

“Getting laid? No.” He laughed humorlessly, a sour, caustic sound. “Congratulations. No, really, I’m happy for you. Amazing that you can still get your dick up after all these years.” He took a deep breath, though it didn’t seem to calm him. “I’m upset with him for opening us up for lawsuits, creating a PR nightmare— I didn’t think I’d have to explicitly tell you to not fuck an employee— thought you were gay anyway, with whatever you and Cap have going on—”

Bucky flushed, his hands clenching at his sides, but he remained silent. He couldn’t argue; Tony was right. He deserved this anger.

“I had FRIDAY look over your contract,” he spat at you over Bucky’s shoulder. “And unfortunately I don’t have grounds to fire you. But when that contract’s up, you’re out. You’re gone by the new year, do you understand me?”

You nodded, uncharacteristically meek.

“And you.” He turned to Bucky. “You… I don’t know what I’m going to do to you yet. Need to figure out what I’m able to do.” He didn’t manage to hide how he glanced at Steve. “But your ass is in hot water, Lefty.”

Bucky just nodded, his eyes locked onto the floor. Tony seemed lost for a moment, like he hadn’t expected them to give in to his demands so easily. “Good,” he finally snarled. He turned to address the room. “That’s it, everyone,” he announced. “Show’s over. Pack it up. We’re done here.”

Everyone said their quiet goodnights, but you and Bucky stayed where you were while the crowd thinned. Finally, when everyone else had left, Bucky could barely bring himself to look at you— his warmth had started to fade, replaced by an icy panic, because he had fucked everything up, he realized— but you were holding back a giggle.

He saw it— that glint, that glimmer in your eyes— and when he huffed, a quick, nervous laugh escaped from you. After a tense second you both broke out into hysterical laughter, bending over when your sides stitched and grabbing onto each other for balance. When the worst of it was over Bucky put an arm around your shoulders, and you breathed deeply.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said into his sweater.

“We will.”

If you enjoyed this fic, please reblog so others can find it!

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly. Bucky inhaled slowly, and it burned; he couldn’t remember the last time he had inhaled. “From what Captain Rogers said, you were in pretty rough shape when you got back last week.”

“I… yeah. I feel pretty good.” He rolled his shoulders slightly, feeling some tension ease out of his muscles with the motion. Most of the pain he had felt just days ago was gone, and his left shoulder had returned to its normal, baseline ache. He was doing well, all things considered.

“But you were seriously injured, right?” Karen already knew the answer to this. Everyone did. Her story about the botched mission went online just an hour after her conversation with you, and it outlined the basics: the mission, the mistake. How Bucky held off what should have been an unstoppable force so that Steve was safe while he completed their directive. How Natasha had dragged Bucky’s unconscious body to safety, and how Sam had done the impossible by piecing him back together with limited resources while they were in the air. It was a testament to Bucky’s selfless nature, and to his teammates’— his friends’— love for him, and the lengths they went to to save him after he saved them. Bucky had opened the article with a sick, dizzying feeling in his gut, but the more he read, the more that feeling faded.

Bucky nodded to answer the question— yes, he had been seriously injured— and you opened your mouth to speak before deciding against it; you were doing your best to let him speak for himself, despite your protective urges. The corners of his lips twitched up before he forced them back to neutral.

You had agreed before the interview that Bucky would be the one to tell his story, and you would only interfere if absolutely necessary. He loved that about you— how you encouraged him to be his own person, to take control of his own narrative while still fiercely wanting to keep him safe from a world that had wronged him. An unfamiliar feeling flickered through him— with you, he almost felt… special. Like he was something worth keeping. Something worth fighting for.

“Can you tell me about some of the injuries?” Karen’s fingers twitched toward her pen, and Bucky froze, his mind going blank. There was a long moment of silence.

“You had some stitches, right?” you suggested softly, and Bucky latched onto your statement, nodding. This was okay. There was no way that sharing this information could hurt him… right? Steve had probably already said most of it.

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered. “Lacerations.” He traced his right hand across his chest. Underneath his shirt he could feel the shiny pink seams, already healed enough for him to remove the threads that Sam and Banner had so carefully sewn. “Um, there were some broken bones…” His hand paused at his collarbone. “Dislocated shoulder. Internal bruising, ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung…” Next to him, your breath hitched. This was your first time hearing these details; you hadn’t wanted to know before. Seeing him laid out, bloody and unconscious, had been enough.

“It’s remarkable that you’ve healed this much in such a short amount of time,” Karen said. “Is that because of the serum?”

Bucky’s jaw snapped shut so harshly that there was an audible click of his teeth. He forced a deep breath, but the tension in the room was palpable. “Sergeant Barnes…” Karen started apologetically.

“Bucky.” He looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since they had sat down. “Please. It’s Bucky.”

She looked surprised, but she nodded. “Bucky,” she repeated before she leaned toward him slightly. “I know you’re nervous about speaking with me. But I swear to you that I won’t publish anything without your approval.” His eyes shifted away, so she continued. “Whatever you say. Whatever we talk about. You get the final judgement call before I even send it to my editor, okay?” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed roughly.

“You can read every draft, make any changes you want. Get rid of any details you decide you don’t want to share.” She sat back in her chair again. “I want to tell your story. Your real story. I'm not… I’m not going to use anything against you.”

Bucky took an easier breath, although his words still came out cold. “You understand why I find that hard to believe.”

He would never forget that day at the courthouse, when the reporters had picked him apart like vultures. He wasn’t whole to begin with but they took everything he had left, plucking out all the shreds of hope and rotten bits of his soul until he was nothing but an empty carcass. They were scavengers, not predators— he was already dead, had died a million times over during testimony. They were just finishing the job.

And then there was the more recent memory— the day that you found out. The day you saw him on TV, looking ill and skeletal while he fumbled his words, each clipped phrase another shovel full of dirt out of his own grave. The way he panicked and ran that day, and how he pushed you away because through his self hatred, he couldn’t fathom that maybe you wanted to stay.

You stayed.

Karen nodded. “I do,” she said. “I wish I could give you something more than my word.” She paused before she shut her notebook. “Would you feel more comfortable if I come back another day? Give you some more time to think it over?”

No amount of time would make this easier, but it needed to be done. He glanced at you, and you gave him an encouraging nod. “Um… maybe… I could answer a couple today? Just not… everything?”

A smile spread across Karen’s face. “Yeah. Perfect. Is it okay if I take some notes?” She sensed his hesitation. “You can read everything I write before I leave, and I’ll tear out whatever you don’t want me to take with me.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he exhaled, and Karen opened her notebook once again. “You were saying… something about the serum?” The pleased look that you and Karen shared didn’t escape him.

“Yes.” Karen clicked her pen. “Is your enhanced healing due to the super soldier serum you received?”

Bucky pulled the inside of his cheek between his molars and bit down hard enough to taste copper. This wasn’t as simple of a question as she thought it was. “Well. Yes,” he said. “But… I don’t know if it was really the super soldier serum.” He hesitated before he mumbled, “and I didn’t receive it.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“I don’t know what they gave me,” he said quietly, his eyes on the table. “It wasn’t… it’s not the same as Steve’s. It’s not Erskine’s formula.”

He and Steve had talked about it, back in Wakanda. Fundamentally, their enhanced abilities were the same; super strength, speed, stamina. Healing.

But while Steve’s transformation occurred inside a top-secret Brooklyn lab, surrounded by politicians and army officers, Bucky’s was in a filthy back room of an enemy bunker. While Steve was encased in that Vita-Ray machine, the most advanced technology available at the time, Bucky was strapped to a table with leather restraints that smelled like sweat and somebody else’s blood.

Steve said that being injected with all those vials of serum at once made him feel like he was exploding, like his cells were all suddenly too large and he was straining at the seams, about to combust— but just as quickly as the pain began, it was over.

Bucky’s injections were smaller and spaced out over days, each one feeling like toxic, fiery sandpaper as they entered his bloodstream, scraping his insides until they were oozing and raw. And as soon as the pain would begin to subside, as soon as he would stop screaming, Zola would come back with more. Bucky didn’t know if Zola drew out his suffering for the sake of science, for the notes and monitored reactions, or if he just got some sick pleasure out of it.

But the biggest difference was that Steve chose this. He wanted it. Had worked for it.

Karen was scribbling furiously while he explained. “I didn’t receive it,” Bucky repeated. Receive made it sound like a gift, but it was a curse.

Your mouth had tipped into a tight frown. You had never been good at hiding your emotions, but you were doing an excellent job at containing the weepy rage you always felt when he talked about these memories.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he said. “I thought the shots were just… another way to torture me.”

While Steve emerged from the machine physically perfected, it took some time for Bucky’s version of the serum to activate. It didn’t take long for Bucky to realize something was changing in him. On missions, Bucky could keep up with Steve when the rest of the Howlies were gasping for breath; he had always been a talented sniper, but now he rarely needed to use the scope. But he never spoke of the changes, and if Steve noticed, he never mentioned it— neither of them wanted to be the first to question what had really gone on in that lab.

“What lab?” Karen asked, and Bucky remembered he was speaking out loud.

“In Austria. The first time I was captured.”

“You say the first time, because you were captured again?”

Bucky nodded. That was the sick irony of it; maybe if he and Steve had talked about it, if he had told Steve that his blood felt foreign, if Steve knew that something had changed… Maybe Steve would’ve looked for him. Maybe Bucky would’ve been saved. Of course no one thought he survived; no ordinary man could. No one knew Bucky had poison running through his veins.

“And the second time was after you fell from the train, correct?”

Bucky’s eyes were closed, but he saw nothing but white. Sunlight reflected off the snow, so bright that spots of shimmery gold formed on the backs of his eyelids; he watched them float. He was wet, soaked to the bone, but he was no longer shivering. He was warm, almost. If this was what death felt like, he was fine with that. The thought didn’t scare him, and he drifted off.

Voices faded in and out, eventually bringing him back to consciousness. He recognized the language. Russian. They were allies. They were there to help him. He tried to speak, but no sounds rose from his jagged glass throat. He couldn’t move, but he felt hands against his jacket collar— and then a jarring, excruciating pain when they began dragging him carelessly through the snow. Every fiber of his being was being torn in two, or maybe he was already torn— the agony was all-encompassing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.

He forced his heavy eyelids open to search for the owner of those wretched hands, the source of his suffering, but the sight he was met with sent him reeling. Red soaked through and melted the snow around him, leaving a trail in his wake; was that his blood? The pain was unbearable, the view ghastly; he turned his head and retched.

He’d rather be dead.

Bucky’s chair screeched as he pushed away from the table and jumped to his feet. “M’sorry,” he mumbled, and he took off. The conference room door slammed behind him, the glass shaking in the pane even as you raced after him.

He found himself in the empty men’s restroom, panting heavily as he braced himself against the toilet.

“Bucky?” you called from the doorway. He could only grunt in response, and you followed the sound to find him in a stall. You sank to your knees behind him and tenderly placed a hand between his sweaty shoulder blades.

The churning in his stomach never materialized; the longer he sat on the tiles with you soothingly rubbing his back, the more his breathing slowed. Eventually he sat back and rested his head against the plastic wall. He eyed you with a worried expression, because he had fucked it all up— he was too weak, couldn’t handle a stupid fucking interview, and now you were disappointed in him, and his failure would be all over the nightly news—

You gently placed your hands on either side of his face, your thumbs stroking across his trembling cheeks.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmured. “You’re okay. I know it’s hard. Nobody is upset with you. You’re doing great.” You pressed your forehead to his as you whispered your reassurances, and you stayed with him like that until he was ready to stand.

You walked together, hand in hand, to the conference room where Karen sat waiting. She looked up from her phone when the door opened, and Bucky clenched his jaw when he felt his face go red. Instead of being angry, Karen only looked at him with concern, which somehow might have been worse— god, he hated being the one everyone had to worry about. She began to stand, but you shook your head and led Bucky back to his seat. Karen gave you a confused look as she sank back down.

“Bucky wants to tell you about the time he stole a motorcycle.” Now it was Bucky’s turn to look confused; he stared at you.

“…I do?” he asked, and you nodded. You held his left hand in both of yours on top of the table, exposed and unashamed; if Karen noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it.

“Um, yeah. Okay,” he said slowly. “We— the unit, the Howlies— were in Italy, so I guess it was 1944, and…”

Both you and Karen laughed at his story, and even Bucky cracked a nervous smile. He felt better, talking about good memories like that. When he was finished, you looked at the time on your phone. “Well, it’s getting late,” you said pointedly.

“Right,” Karen said, and she pushed her notebook toward Bucky. He turned it around to read it; she hadn’t written anything down past “experimental formula- NO CONSENT- forced as POW.” He closed his eyes, but nodded and passed the book back to her.

“I’ll be in touch,” Karen said. “Call me whenever you’re ready to continue. Thank you for speaking with me, Serg— Bucky.”

The nap Bucky took that afternoon, with his much larger frame wrapped safely in your arms, rivaled any therapy hangover nap. His dreams were unsteady— shadowy figures in his peripheral, a foreboding feeling bubbling in his chest. But when the shadows got a bit too close and he jolted awake, your warm skin and steady heartbeat were all that he felt.

Bucky didn’t look up when he walked into the apartment. “Package,” he muttered under his breath as the door shut behind him. You glanced at him from your spot on the couch, but not quickly enough; you had to lean to the side and swat the package to the floor to keep it from hitting you directly in the face.

The box bounced to a stop in the middle of the living room, and Bucky grinned. He had made a bit of a game of this— you didn’t have the most effective reflexes, but at least they were… entertaining.

“Hope it wasn’t fragile, dumbass.” You scowled unconvincingly; the corners of your lips twitched up when your saccharine gaze met his. “What’d you order?”

“Nothing. It’s yours.”

“Well I didn’t order anything.”

“Got your name on it.”

Tension surged as you both stared at the medium-sized rectangular box, now lying on its side next to the coffee table. You leaned over to pick it up, but Bucky beat you there.

He lifted the box with newfound attention. Nothing about it had felt off when he carried it upstairs, but he hadn’t had a reason to be suspicious then. He weighed it in his hand and listened to the contents slide around when he moved it: something soft, like fabric, and the quiet crinkle of tissue paper. Satisfied with its harmlessness, he passed the package to you, and you checked the label. Your shoulders stiffened.

“It's… from my parents,” you said haltingly. You almost looked like you were going to set the box back down, but with a sigh you reluctantly tore it open. Bucky was right; you had to peel crinkly white paper away to see what was inside. You slowly pulled the fabric out of the box, and your nose wrinkled in disgust when you realized what it was.

A crisp black suit, complete with a pencil skirt, creased from how it was cheaply packaged. And underneath it, a card with your name on it. You unceremoniously ripped the envelope open and glanced at the message inside; your lip immediately curled into a snarl, and you tossed it to the coffee table. You almost climbed to your feet, but Bucky stopped you.

“What is it?” he asked.

You scoffed. “A suit,” you said, “for all my interviews that I’m going to go on when I leave this place. Just what I wanted to be reminded of. Right. Great.”

Panic surged through his veins. When you leave this place? Bucky quickly did the math in his head; it was nearly November, so you had just over two months left here at the compound. Oh, fuck. How had time gotten away from him like that? Of course you’d be making plans for after.

You were too busy seething to notice how Bucky had frozen with a blank, wide-eyed expression on his face, a dead giveaway to his racing thoughts. “Happy birthday to me,” you muttered as you slumped sideways onto the couch cushions.

Wait. Bucky looked at you sharply. “…When is that, again? Your birthday?”

“Uh… what day is it now? Thursday?” You held up your fingers to count. “It’s… four days from now. Monday.” You sighed and settled further into the couch. “Of course it’s a fucking Monday. Gross.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. He turned to you, his eyes betraying his frustration, his almost angry bewilderment.

“What?” you asked, taken aback by the intensity of his expression.

“How did I not know?” He was absolutely certain he hadn’t forgotten; he had never known in the first place. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice shook slightly. “What the fuck,” he said under his breath, more to himself than to you. “How am I missing stuff like this?”

Bucky loved you, he knew that for sure. And he knew you. He knew the rhythm of your breaths when you slept, and what you looked like when you first woke up, and how you took your coffee in the morning. He knew what made you laugh, what made you cry, and what scared you so deeply that you wouldn’t sleep if you thought about it. He knew what kind of music you liked, knew the songs you kept on repeat, and the ones that reminded you of so much pain that you could no longer bear to listen to them.

He knew how fiercely loyal you were, and how your sense of self preservation went out the window when you felt someone you loved had been wronged. He knew what it meant when you looked at him with that mischievous glint in your eye, and what it meant when you wrapped your arms around yourself so tightly that your nails left indents in your skin. But something as simple as a birthday? How the fuck did he not know that?

“It doesn’t matter,” you said with a shrug and a dismissive shake of your head.

Bucky collapsed onto the couch next to your and grabbed your arm, and your mouth dropped open slightly at his vehemence. He couldn’t hide the way his low voice trembled. “Everything matters.”

It was true— everything about you mattered to him. God, how could he be your boyfriend— your boyfriend? He gulped. How could he be anything to you without knowing such crucial, basic information?

He exhaled, releasing some of his intensity with his breath. “Your birthday is in four days,” he said. “What do you want to do for it?”

“Nothing,” you said, and maybe on the surface it looked like you were telling the truth— but Bucky knew better. Your eyes shifted away from him, your shoulders hunched. “Seriously, it’s no big deal,” you continued. “I’m… surprised they even remembered it.” Something in your tone changed when you looked back at the card from your parents. “They probably put it on the calendar this year just so they could send me that suit,” you said bitterly. “That’s the exact kind of fucked up, passive aggressive bullshit they would do.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but he didn’t quite know what to say. “But do you want to… celebrate?”

“No,” you said, quickly shaking your head. “I’m not— I don’t…” you sighed. “I usually just go to a Halloween party and pretend,” you mumbled. “The days are close enough.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped; that was one of the saddest fucking things he had ever heard.

“We’ve gotta talk,” he said. You turned back to him, your fragile face threatening to crumple.

He pressed his lips to your forehead. “I want you to tell me everything,” he breathed. “Everything.”

The next several hours were spent going over every detail you could think of. Both of you talked about your families, the houses you grew up in, your favorite stories from when you were kids. Bucky told you about going to school in the 1920s and 30s, how he’d tag along to Steve’s art classes even though he could barely draw a decent stick figure, and when he had to leave to get his first job on the docks. You told him about your favorite elementary school teacher, your childhood hobbies, and the girls who bullied you so badly that you faked sick to stay home as often as you could.

Bucky almost melted from the way you watched him, listening eagerly as he spoke about the most mundane moments of his life, and you both teared up when he told you more about his time spent healing in Wakanda. You didn’t miss the way Bucky scowled when you talked about your parents, or how he wrapped a protective arm around your shoulders when you tallied up your heartbreaks.

Finally, after you both had exhausted every last memory in your brains, Bucky felt at ease. This was how it was supposed to be. This closeness, this knowledge, was more intimate than sex could ever be.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know your birthday,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

You hushed him. “It’s fine,” you said. “Now you know.”

But it wasn’t fine. Because he only had four days.

Bucky had done a good job of hiding it from you; at least, he thought he did. You sat together on the couch after dinner on Sunday evening, just reading, his right arm tucked around your shoulders. You were engrossed in your book, but through his haze of excitement Bucky couldn’t get those little black marks on the page to turn into words. When he glanced at the clock on his phone for the umpteenth time, you gave him a much deserved odd look, but he just shrugged; he couldn’t help it.

When it was finally seven o’clock, Bucky closed his book and leaned over to speak against your ear. “Baby,” he said, his low voice hardly masking his eagerness. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

You looked up at him, doe-eyed in your confusion until you caught sight of his shit-eating grin. Your own expression turned into a mulish frown, but that didn’t deter him.

“C’mon,” he said. “Go get dressed up.” Your frown didn’t budge, but there was a growing glimmer in your eyes. “Nothing fancy,” he said with a peck against your cheek. “Stay comfortable. But we’re going out.”

“We can’t go out,” you said flatly as you marked your page.

“Okay, maybe not out out. Just go get ready. Please? Please.”

You didn’t try to hide your snicker. “Well, I guess if you’re going to beg.”

You changed quickly: sweatpants to jeans, a nice shirt, and a necklace Bucky hadn’t seen before. That was a good sign. He didn’t bother with a jacket or gloves before he led you to the elevator, and you noticed.

“Where are we going?”

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close so he could speak with his lips against your hair— that sweet scent that drove him so crazy. “I told ya I was going to take you to the movies, didn’t I?”

You forced the corners of your mouth down to hide your smile. “You did.” During that hazy fantasy you had talked him through so long ago, when you blurred the lines between past and present, he told you he would’ve taken you to the movies for your second date. Make out in the back row like a couple of kids.

He meant it, just like he meant every single word he said to you, every promise. He was going to keep them all.

When Bucky opened the heavy doors to the theater room and you saw the setup, you dug your heels in.

Okay, sure, maybe it looked like a lot. But Bucky didn’t have much trouble putting it together at all. The projection system was foolproof, and he was able to order the other things online— the microwave popcorn, the candy, some different types of soda. He had searched the new releases and found some fantasy movie that came out a month ago with good reviews— and he had it queued up and waiting on the projection screen.

You turned to him, your familiar frown returning while he poured two drinks. “I said I didn’t want to do anything for my birthday.”

“Nothing?” he wheedled as he turned to you. “Not even cake?” He tempted you with a lopsided smile and took a sip of his drink.

You stepped closer to him, and before he realized what was happening, you reached around with both arms to squeeze two handfuls of his ass. “Got all the cake I need right here.”

Soda didn’t quite snort out of Bucky’s nose, but it was close; he turned his head to spare you while he sputtered, but you didn’t let go of him.

“Why are you like this?” he asked when he could speak without choking.

You shrugged innocently and looked up at him with that telltale glint in your eyes. “Why do you like me like this?”

He shook his head slowly, a sheepish grin taking over his face while he coughed to clear more carbonation out of his throat. “Well, good thing it’s not your birthday,” he said with a shrug. “That’s tomorrow. So tonight, this is just a date.”

This little theater room was exceptionally nice; Bucky appreciated the decision to substitute normal movie theater seats with plush leather couches, because that meant he could keep his arms wrapped tightly around you for the entire movie.

You stretched out together on one of the couches, and when the credits rolled, you glanced over your shoulder to find his eyes glued to you. “I didn’t think you were still awake,” you said teasingly.

“Of course I’m awake.” He kissed the side of your face.

“Your hands were still.”

He grinned— it had taken an ungodly amount of self control, but he had been trying very hard to let you focus on the movie. “Well, I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

You snorted, and Bucky shrugged playfully. You had both chosen to ignore the way he had stiffened against your backside, throbbing occasionally, during the film’s one sex scene. He couldn’t help it— it was… a lot for him, if he was honest. He had heard of blue movies back in the day, but he’d never seen one for himself— and even now, with everything on the internet, he hadn’t quite acclimated. He couldn’t wrap his head around how people watched those kinds of things in public.

“You were very good,” you murmured to him, the combination of your words and your sultry tone sending a jolt of lightning through his core. You rolled over and traced your fingers down his abdomen, but he recoiled when they reached his waistband.

“No,” he said quietly. “S’posed to be for you.”

“It’s a date,” you said, and he shivered when your lips met his earlobe. “Isn’t this how you’d want a date to end?”

Well, yeah, but… “It’s your birthday,” he mumbled. You grinned wickedly when he finally admitted it, and glanced at your phone.

“It’s not my birthday for another ten minutes,” you said as you sank to your knees on the floor in front of him. “Now take off your belt.”

Bucky groaned, and he couldn’t believe he was doing it, but he placed a hand on your shoulder and held you at bay. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, and you pouted. “You can do anything you want to me later,” he promised, instantly regretting the words when your eyes widened with excitement. “But there’s something else I gotta show you.”

Bucky was nearly giddy as he led you through the dark to the common kitchen table and flicked on a single light. You glanced at the table, at the two plates and forks he had set out, then looked back to Bucky with narrowed eyes. He was standing with his back to you in front of the large commercial refrigerator. “I said I didn’t want anything,” you almost growled, but his smile only grew.

“I know,” Bucky said without turning around. “But you lied.” You dropped down into a chair with a halfhearted scoff.

The soft glow of the small light over the sink was just enough to chase the shadows away from your face. You were fighting hard to keep your mouth straight; it wasn’t clear if you were trying not to smile or frown.

Bucky turned around slowly, revealing the small cake he held on a platter with a flourish— but his smile immediately faded when he saw the tears welling in your eyes.

Shit. It was a small cake, maybe too small, hardly more than a glorified cupcake. And he had forgotten to buy candles— he found some in the cabinets earlier but they were mismatched, haphazardly stuck into the frosting at odd angles— he should’ve spent more time arranging them nicely. His expression must have dropped as far as his heart did, because you sniffed and shook your head slightly, a smile cracking across your lips. You beckoned to him, and he set the cake on the table and sat down across from you.

“You didn’t make that,” you said matter-of-factly, although your voice was thick.

He shook his head. “You didn’t hear any fire alarms, did you?” he asked with a crooked smile. You huffed in agreement, and your smile grew, slowly becoming more natural. “I found a bakery in town that delivers,” he said. “I know it’s small, but I didn’t want to get too much with just the two of us.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, almost to yourself, as Bucky lit each candle in turn.

“Baby,” he said, suddenly deadly serious. “There’s just one thing.” You nodded and leaned toward him, perplexed, and he struggled to keep the smile off his face. “I'm sorry, but I’m not going to sing to you.”

You laughed. “That’s it, that’s just too much,” you teased. “It’s all ruined.” But your smile told him exactly the opposite, and you leaned forward to blow out the candles.

Bucky knew he wasn’t supposed to wish, but after missing out on so many birthdays, he figured he was allowed a couple of extra wishes— and besides, the way you were looking at him gave him a sneaking suspicion that you had wished for the exact same thing.

When you were both finished with the cake, Bucky quickly washed the dishes in the sink while you nearly dozed off at the table. Well, he thought you were dozing— with his back turned, he didn’t notice the dreamy way you watched his every move. He was glad to have the dishes to keep his hands busy; he was growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally, he dried his shaky hands on the kitchen towel, and you stood up to leave.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said hurriedly. “One more thing.” He pulled something out of a cabinet and hurried to sit down across from you. Before he could change his mind, he held the gift out over the table.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, sitting up straight while you stared at the small black velvet box. You clutched your left hand in your right. “Bucky, I…” Emotion after emotion passed over your face as you glanced between Bucky and the little square box; terror, and excitement, and dismay, and… He hid his frown.

“I didn’t have anything to wrap it with,” he said apologetically as he handed it over. “Forgot about that part.” He made a mental note for next time: candles and wrapping paper.

You stared straight at the box as you took it into your shaky hands. Something about him passing it to you over the table like that seemed to calm you, and you took another deep breath as you sized it up in your hand; it was larger than your palm. But you gasped when you cracked the hinged box open and peeked inside, and your eyes flew to meet his as you slammed it shut again. Bucky’s smile was weak, uncertain, but he gave you a tiny nod. Keep going. Please, keep going. You opened the box fully and sucked in a reverent breath.

You plucked the bracelet from its velvet cushion with two fingers and let it dangle in front of you. The dainty gold chain rotated slowly in the air, and the row of faceted black gemstones reflected and refracted the dull light, their inky blackness somehow giving way to a bright shimmer.

The idea came to him that day in the shower, when you took his hand in your own and scrubbed at the black and gold, carefully washing away the shame that had encrusted it for too long. You paid it so much attention, touched it with so much tender care, that he could almost see it through your eyes— and just for a moment, his arm was a thing of beauty. It really was.

Bucky thought that maybe if you found that cursed arm so beautiful, then you would like something that was actually beautiful even more. And, selfishly, maybe it would remind you of him. After.

He watched you with bated breath while he waited for you to say something. Anything. Your eyes traveled between Bucky’s face and the bracelet, and you swallowed hard. You opened your mouth, but instead of speaking you clutched the bracelet to your chest and burst into tears.

Oh, no. “I-I can return it if you don’t like it, you can pick something else—” He suddenly realized how stupid this was. You rarely wore jewelry, why did he think you’d want jewelry— And how fucking arrogant of him, how deluded to think you’d want something like this, something to remind you of him— of his— he gulped— his weapon—

“Are you kidding me?” you sobbed. Those were the only words you managed to choke out, but your grip on the bracelet never loosened. Bucky watched you nervously, his thoughts racing so quickly that he couldn’t grab hold of any of them. Maybe… maybe you didn’t hate it. But when you hiccuped a pained breath, he realized with a sinking feeling that your tears weren’t slowing.

He jumped up from his chair and hurried to your side of the table. Standing behind you, he wrapped his arms tightly around your shoulders, which only made you cry harder, but you were smiling now—

Either Bucky did something wrong, or he did something really, really right.

“Thank you,” you finally managed to say during a break in the tears. “I love it.” You slipped it over your left hand and tightened the chain. It sparkled in the shadows, much brighter than the metallic luster of his arm next to it, but still a perfect match.

Bucky smiled as he nuzzled his lips against your ear, and the words slipped out before he could stop them: “I love you.”

He froze as soon as he realized what he said. He held his breath, waiting for the fallout, but he couldn’t step away because that would be too strange, it would draw too much attention— you hadn’t replied yet, so maybe you didn’t hear, and he could pretend it never happened—

He didn’t mean to say it. It wasn’t part of his plan. But seeing you like that, matching him, embracing it… if he had known the words to explain how much that meant to him, he would have said them. But there were only three words he knew that seemed big enough, important enough, to convey that monumental truth—

“I love you,” he said again, just because he wanted to hear it. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into an infectious smile even when you pulled away to look back at him.

“Wait,” you said, your voice unusually timid as you searched his eyes for any hint of a joke. “You’re serious?”

He nodded.

Heavy sobs shook your shoulders when you stood to throw your arms around his neck. Soft, incredulous laughter broke through your tears when he kissed you, and with your face smushed against his cheek the words didn’t come out quite right, but he heard them: “I love you, too.”

He scooped you up in his arms; anything to be closer to you. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your ear when you snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” That only made you cry harder, but it was okay— you were smiling. They were happy tears, and he couldn’t blame you— nothing had ever been more deserving of happy tears in his life.

When you finally calmed down enough to speak, you pulled away slightly. “You know that’s not the first time you’ve said that to me, right?”

He blanched. “...What?”

You only laughed, and covered what you could reach of his face and neck in sweet kisses while he carried your back upstairs.

Your kisses turned needier and more frantic as soon as you reached the elevator, and it took all of Bucky’s willpower to force himself to walk steadily instead of sprinting to the bedroom.

He crashed through the apartment door, stumbling slightly as he finally gave in and raced down the hall. Bucky laid you onto the bed before falling forward to join you on top of the comforter. You giggled, but his lips never left your skin while he hastily removed your clothes. You lifted your hips so he could slide your jeans off down your legs, and he stood back to tear his own clothes off. But his breath caught at the view in front of him, and he paused.

“Bucky,” you said with a knowing smile. “You’re staring again.” Even so, you didn’t move to cover yourself.

“Never gonna stop staring,” he said with an unashamed shrug. He climbed back on top of your and rested his forearms on either side of your head.

“I love you,” he said again, the words still foreign but delicious on his tongue. The way you shut your eyes, your cheeks glowing, and practically fucking purred told him all he needed to know— so when you said the words back to him, that was just icing on the cake. Bucky’s lips came crashing down onto yours, and you grinned into the kiss. You hitched your knees up over his waist, tilting your pelvis up to meet his, and he rolled his hips against yours a few times in that way he knew you liked.

He leaned his weight on his left elbow so he could reach down and get you ready for him, but your hand on his wrist stopped him.

“Other hand,” you whispered breathlessly. “Please?”

There was a hesitation, and he tore his gaze from your chest back up to your eyes— his eyebrows furrowed, and he gulped. But you nodded, encouraging him. You wanted it. You did.

He shifted his weight and slowly, carefully, traced his left hand over the hill of your breast, over the ledge where your ribs gave way to softness, and down to your thigh. Goosebumps followed his trail, either from the cool metal, his teasing touch, or both. He splayed his hand out wide over your thigh and rubbed this thumb against the tender skin there, so close to where you wanted him, but not quite enough. You let out a quiet groan and squirmed, wiggling your hips; if he wouldn’t put his hand where you needed it, you’d do it yourself, apparently. He grinned at that, and so lightly that it almost tickled, he drew a metal finger up through your dripping folds.

He was unprepared for the moan that broke free from you, and the way you immediately trembled under his touch. The temperature difference was astounding, he knew; the digits would warm up eventually, but for now they were like ice against your most sensitive skin. And judging from your whimpers, you liked it.

“Need it, need it, need it,” you chanted quietly.

He pushed one finger inside of you, and oh, fuck, that feeling— the warmth and enveloping pressure that those fingers had never felt, that those nerves had never experienced— he carefully inserted another finger, and when you shuddered, he did, too.

He was hesitant to use the hand too much, wary of its strength, but when his thumb pressed gently to your clit, you started rocking your hips against it. He was simply a passenger, a witness to this small miracle, and he watched with heavy-lidded eyes and a slack jaw while you took pleasure from a piece of him that he thought had none to offer.

“So good,” you panted. “Fuck— l-love you…”

His cock was leaking strings of pre-cum all over your thigh and the bedsheets, and it jumped when your pussy tightened around his fingers. It knocked the air from his lungs, that pressure, and he crooked his fingers and slotted his lips over yours to drink up all the beautiful sounds you made as you came.

Your body was still shaking from the aftershocks, but Bucky couldn’t get inside you fast enough. There was no waiting, no teasing; only that urgent need to be as close to you as possible. To be part of you. He gripped the base of his cock and nudged at your entrance, and he was met with a slick heat that made his hips jerk forward uncontrollably. Your moan when he entered you made his breath catch.

“God, I fucking love you,” he rasped against your lips. Fully sheathed, he gave you a moment to adjust, waiting for you to nod before his hips picked up an unrelenting rhythm.

You sucked in a harsh breath when he wrapped his metal arm under your hips and yanked them up, changing the angle so he could fuck even deeper inside of you without pulling his lips away from yours. You fluttered around him again, and he didn’t have the strength to even attempt to hold out against the delicious pressure that had been blooming in him for hours. He came with a raw shout against your neck, then continued to grind into you slowly while you both caught your breath.

Eventually Bucky rolled to the side, and you reached for him blindly. The bracelet dangled from your wrist, reflecting the moonlight that snuck in through the window.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it. The bracelet looked so beautiful on you, it was perfect— but he couldn’t help that piece inside of him that wished it was a ring.

Bucky didn’t know how much time passed as he lay there, watching you in the moonlight. After a while you sighed, and in the last few moments before sleep pulled you under, you spoke. “Love you, Buck. Always have.”

Bucky slammed his notebook shut when he heard your footsteps approaching from down the hall the next day. He chewed on the end of his pen, but he couldn’t wipe the guilt from his face quickly enough— you gave him a questioning glance as you walked over to where he was seated at the kitchen table.

“Dear diary,” you said in a mockingly deep voice, and when he didn’t stop you, you continued.

“Dear diary, I might have overdone it last night.” He narrowed his eyes at you when he noticed that crazy gleam, but it was too late. “Bucky Jr. might need medical attention—” Bucky snorted and dropped his pen on the table— “he’s never been so exhausted. He put up a valiant fight, but waking up to my girlfriend’s soul-sucking powers is just too—”

Bucky blinked. “Girlfriend?”

You stared back at him with wide eyes, realizing your mistake at the same moment he did. “I-I mean, um, yeah, if you… fuck…” You turned away from him, your shoulders raised nearly to your ears, shielding you while you held your breath.

It took a moment for his brain to reboot. “Yes,” he said as quickly as he could. “Yes. Yeah, of course.

You turned back to him with a sparkling grin, as if that moment of doubt was already so far in your rear view mirror that it was just a blur. “What are you writing, though? Really?”

He sighed, and his voice came out too small as his mood deflated. “I’m… just trying to figure out how old I am,” he mumbled.

You shot a sideways glance at the closed notebook. “You said you were born in 1917.”

“I mean, yeah, but… I’m just… It’s more complicated than that.” His first instinct was to clam up, or lie— but no. No more secrets. “I’m trying to figure out how often Hydra had me out of cryo,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to keep track… easier if I write it down. And I’d just… rather you not see that.”

Because the easiest way for him to track how often he was awake was to follow along with the reports of his crimes. He had looked up the charges and testimonies from court to get a general sense, but what was left unanswered was just how long he was out of cryo each time. He didn’t know how much prep he got; he couldn’t remember if they pulled him out and trained him, or if they just gave him his mission and sent him off. And what about the missions that were so successful that they were never discovered? He clenched his teeth; he was getting frustrated by the nebulosity of it all.

“It’s okay,” you told him softly. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It does,” he said forcefully, but his voice broke slightly with his next words. “Because I don’t— I don’t know how much longer—”

“What?” you stepped closer beside him and placed a calming hand on the back of his neck. He could tell from your unbothered tone that you weren’t following, you didn’t get it—

“I… hear me out, okay?” he said, and you nodded as you rubbed lazy circles against his skin. He sighed. “I always assumed I’d die in a fight.” He expected you to protest that, but you didn’t. “But what if… what if maybe, I don’t? What if I get to live out my life, however much is left of it?”

You smiled gently. “That doesn’t seem like a bad thought to have.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. But… How am I supposed to know how much time I have left?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I could figure it out and do the math, but there’s so much time that’s just… blank. Too many variables. And the fucking serum, too, I don’t know…”

“Bucky, no one knows how much time they have left.”

Bucky shook his head, still agitated. “It’s different. Steve was in the ice for seventy years, right? And he came out looking pretty much like he looked in 1944.” He waited for you to nod. “Well, I think I look… older. Not by much,” he said quickly when you started to disagree. His hand stroked his beard, hesitating at the gray patch of hair. “But there’s something… Steve wasn’t awake at all through those years. But I was.”

“We can ask Dr. Banner,” you murmured, and that made Bucky’s heart jolt because you were acknowledging his fear— and if you were acknowledging it, that meant it was justified— “We can call him tomorrow and ask him to research it, and then you can see him as soon as he’s back. Run some tests or something.” Bucky just shook his head.

“He can’t research. There is no research. It’s me and Steve.”

You didn’t have any way to refute that. “Why are you so worried about this right now?”

“Because what if I'm in good shape but my body still has an expiration date, and I die in like, a couple years?” And leave you behind. “Or what if I’ve got decades to go still, even out of the ice, and I—” He’d have to spend all that time without you.

Somehow, you heard the unspoken part of his thoughts. “You’re here with me now.” You stepped completely behind him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your chin coming to rest at the top of his head.

“But how long?” He winced when his voice broke again. “How long will I be here with you? I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to leave you. But maybe I…”

“Bucky,” you said sharply. A warning. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s too late. Yes, if you die it will hurt me. You’re not going to make it hurt any less by leaving me.” He knew from your tone that you were glaring at him, even as you pressed a kiss to his hair. “That'd hurt even more— losing you twice.” Your voice was smaller now. “Please don’t make me lose you twice.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath. His heartbeat was slowing slightly. You were right, of course you were.

“Your birthday is March tenth, 1917,” you murmured into his ear. “That’s all that matters. That’s all I care about.”

“Yeah, well, that’s still fucking weird,” he grumbled. He felt a little grumpy now, but at least the panic had subsided.

“Would you want to do something fun? It’s not every day that someone turns…” you quickly did the math in your head, “one hundred and five.”

He groaned. “Don’t say that,” he said. Talking about his age freaked him out a little bit, if he was honest. “I don’t want a party. I’ve had too many birthdays.”

“How many were you able to celebrate like you deserve?” He was silent at that, and he felt you grin because you knew you had won. “And I wasn’t talking about a party.” You loosened your arms and stepped to the side. “What about something with just you and me?” He looked up at you, the tension creeping away from his shoulders, his eyes softening.

His birthday was in March. You wanted to do something with him in March— you were still going to be with him in March— but where would you—? After December, what would he—?

“What…” He cleared his throat. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something quiet,” you said. “Peaceful. Maybe we could go somewhere? Make a little vacation out of it.”

God, that would be nice— so much freedom after all this time stuck inside. He felt a stinging behind his eyes and blinked several times to soften it.

“How does that sound? Anywhere you wanna go?”

“I always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

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“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly. Bucky inhaled slowly, and it burned; he couldn’t remember the last time he had inhaled. “From what Captain Rogers said, you were in pretty rough shape when you got back last week.”

“I… yeah. I feel pretty good.” He rolled his shoulders slightly, feeling some tension ease out of his muscles with the motion. Most of the pain he had felt just days ago was gone, and his left shoulder had returned to its normal, baseline ache. He was doing well, all things considered.

“But you were seriously injured, right?” Karen already knew the answer to this. Everyone did. Her story about the botched mission went online just an hour after her conversation with you, and it outlined the basics: the mission, the mistake. How Bucky held off what should have been an unstoppable force so that Steve was safe while he completed their directive. How Natasha had dragged Bucky’s unconscious body to safety, and how Sam had done the impossible by piecing him back together with limited resources while they were in the air. It was a testament to Bucky’s selfless nature, and to his teammates’— his friends’— love for him, and the lengths they went to to save him after he saved them. Bucky had opened the article with a sick, dizzying feeling in his gut, but the more he read, the more that feeling faded.

Bucky nodded to answer the question— yes, he had been seriously injured— and you opened your mouth to speak before deciding against it; you were doing your best to let him speak for himself, despite your protective urges. The corners of his lips twitched up before he forced them back to neutral.

You had agreed before the interview that Bucky would be the one to tell his story, and you would only interfere if absolutely necessary. He loved that about you— how you encouraged him to be his own person, to take control of his own narrative while still fiercely wanting to keep him safe from a world that had wronged him. An unfamiliar feeling flickered through him— with you, he almost felt… special. Like he was something worth keeping. Something worth fighting for.

“Can you tell me about some of the injuries?” Karen’s fingers twitched toward her pen, and Bucky froze, his mind going blank. There was a long moment of silence.

“You had some stitches, right?” you suggested softly, and Bucky latched onto your statement, nodding. This was okay. There was no way that sharing this information could hurt him… right? Steve had probably already said most of it.

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered. “Lacerations.” He traced his right hand across his chest. Underneath his shirt he could feel the shiny pink seams, already healed enough for him to remove the threads that Sam and Banner had so carefully sewn. “Um, there were some broken bones…” His hand paused at his collarbone. “Dislocated shoulder. Internal bruising, ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung…” Next to him, your breath hitched. This was your first time hearing these details; you hadn’t wanted to know before. Seeing him laid out, bloody and unconscious, had been enough.

“It’s remarkable that you’ve healed this much in such a short amount of time,” Karen said. “Is that because of the serum?”

Bucky’s jaw snapped shut so harshly that there was an audible click of his teeth. He forced a deep breath, but the tension in the room was palpable. “Sergeant Barnes…” Karen started apologetically.

“Bucky.” He looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since they had sat down. “Please. It’s Bucky.”

She looked surprised, but she nodded. “Bucky,” she repeated before she leaned toward him slightly. “I know you’re nervous about speaking with me. But I swear to you that I won’t publish anything without your approval.” His eyes shifted away, so she continued. “Whatever you say. Whatever we talk about. You get the final judgement call before I even send it to my editor, okay?” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed roughly.

“You can read every draft, make any changes you want. Get rid of any details you decide you don’t want to share.” She sat back in her chair again. “I want to tell your story. Your real story. I'm not… I’m not going to use anything against you.”

Bucky took an easier breath, although his words still came out cold. “You understand why I find that hard to believe.”

He would never forget that day at the courthouse, when the reporters had picked him apart like vultures. He wasn’t whole to begin with but they took everything he had left, plucking out all the shreds of hope and rotten bits of his soul until he was nothing but an empty carcass. They were scavengers, not predators— he was already dead, had died a million times over during testimony. They were just finishing the job.

And then there was the more recent memory— the day that you found out. The day you saw him on TV, looking ill and skeletal while he fumbled his words, each clipped phrase another shovel full of dirt out of his own grave. The way he panicked and ran that day, and how he pushed you away because through his self hatred, he couldn’t fathom that maybe you wanted to stay.

You stayed.

Karen nodded. “I do,” she said. “I wish I could give you something more than my word.” She paused before she shut her notebook. “Would you feel more comfortable if I come back another day? Give you some more time to think it over?”

No amount of time would make this easier, but it needed to be done. He glanced at you, and you gave him an encouraging nod. “Um… maybe… I could answer a couple today? Just not… everything?”

A smile spread across Karen’s face. “Yeah. Perfect. Is it okay if I take some notes?” She sensed his hesitation. “You can read everything I write before I leave, and I’ll tear out whatever you don’t want me to take with me.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he exhaled, and Karen opened her notebook once again. “You were saying… something about the serum?” The pleased look that you and Karen shared didn’t escape him.

“Yes.” Karen clicked her pen. “Is your enhanced healing due to the super soldier serum you received?”

Bucky pulled the inside of his cheek between his molars and bit down hard enough to taste copper. This wasn’t as simple of a question as she thought it was. “Well. Yes,” he said. “But… I don’t know if it was really the super soldier serum.” He hesitated before he mumbled, “and I didn’t receive it.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“I don’t know what they gave me,” he said quietly, his eyes on the table. “It wasn’t… it’s not the same as Steve’s. It’s not Erskine’s formula.”

He and Steve had talked about it, back in Wakanda. Fundamentally, their enhanced abilities were the same; super strength, speed, stamina. Healing.

But while Steve’s transformation occurred inside a top-secret Brooklyn lab, surrounded by politicians and army officers, Bucky’s was in a filthy back room of an enemy bunker. While Steve was encased in that Vita-Ray machine, the most advanced technology available at the time, Bucky was strapped to a table with leather restraints that smelled like sweat and somebody else’s blood.

Steve said that being injected with all those vials of serum at once made him feel like he was exploding, like his cells were all suddenly too large and he was straining at the seams, about to combust— but just as quickly as the pain began, it was over.

Bucky’s injections were smaller and spaced out over days, each one feeling like toxic, fiery sandpaper as they entered his bloodstream, scraping his insides until they were oozing and raw. And as soon as the pain would begin to subside, as soon as he would stop screaming, Zola would come back with more. Bucky didn’t know if Zola drew out his suffering for the sake of science, for the notes and monitored reactions, or if he just got some sick pleasure out of it.

But the biggest difference was that Steve chose this. He wanted it. Had worked for it.

Karen was scribbling furiously while he explained. “I didn’t receive it,” Bucky repeated. Receive made it sound like a gift, but it was a curse.

Your mouth had tipped into a tight frown. You had never been good at hiding your emotions, but you were doing an excellent job at containing the weepy rage you always felt when he talked about these memories.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he said. “I thought the shots were just… another way to torture me.”

While Steve emerged from the machine physically perfected, it took some time for Bucky’s version of the serum to activate. It didn’t take long for Bucky to realize something was changing in him. On missions, Bucky could keep up with Steve when the rest of the Howlies were gasping for breath; he had always been a talented sniper, but now he rarely needed to use the scope. But he never spoke of the changes, and if Steve noticed, he never mentioned it— neither of them wanted to be the first to question what had really gone on in that lab.

“What lab?” Karen asked, and Bucky remembered he was speaking out loud.

“In Austria. The first time I was captured.”

“You say the first time, because you were captured again?”

Bucky nodded. That was the sick irony of it; maybe if he and Steve had talked about it, if he had told Steve that his blood felt foreign, if Steve knew that something had changed… Maybe Steve would’ve looked for him. Maybe Bucky would’ve been saved. Of course no one thought he survived; no ordinary man could. No one knew Bucky had poison running through his veins.

“And the second time was after you fell from the train, correct?”

Bucky’s eyes were closed, but he saw nothing but white. Sunlight reflected off the snow, so bright that spots of shimmery gold formed on the backs of his eyelids; he watched them float. He was wet, soaked to the bone, but he was no longer shivering. He was warm, almost. If this was what death felt like, he was fine with that. The thought didn’t scare him, and he drifted off.

Voices faded in and out, eventually bringing him back to consciousness. He recognized the language. Russian. They were allies. They were there to help him. He tried to speak, but no sounds rose from his jagged glass throat. He couldn’t move, but he felt hands against his jacket collar— and then a jarring, excruciating pain when they began dragging him carelessly through the snow. Every fiber of his being was being torn in two, or maybe he was already torn— the agony was all-encompassing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.

He forced his heavy eyelids open to search for the owner of those wretched hands, the source of his suffering, but the sight he was met with sent him reeling. Red soaked through and melted the snow around him, leaving a trail in his wake; was that his blood? The pain was unbearable, the view ghastly; he turned his head and retched.

He’d rather be dead.

Bucky’s chair screeched as he pushed away from the table and jumped to his feet. “M’sorry,” he mumbled, and he took off. The conference room door slammed behind him, the glass shaking in the pane even as you raced after him.

He found himself in the empty men’s restroom, panting heavily as he braced himself against the toilet.

“Bucky?” you called from the doorway. He could only grunt in response, and you followed the sound to find him in a stall. You sank to your knees behind him and tenderly placed a hand between his sweaty shoulder blades.

The churning in his stomach never materialized; the longer he sat on the tiles with you soothingly rubbing his back, the more his breathing slowed. Eventually he sat back and rested his head against the plastic wall. He eyed you with a worried expression, because he had fucked it all up— he was too weak, couldn’t handle a stupid fucking interview, and now you were disappointed in him, and his failure would be all over the nightly news—

You gently placed your hands on either side of his face, your thumbs stroking across his trembling cheeks.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmured. “You’re okay. I know it’s hard. Nobody is upset with you. You’re doing great.” You pressed your forehead to his as you whispered your reassurances, and you stayed with him like that until he was ready to stand.

You walked together, hand in hand, to the conference room where Karen sat waiting. She looked up from her phone when the door opened, and Bucky clenched his jaw when he felt his face go red. Instead of being angry, Karen only looked at him with concern, which somehow might have been worse— god, he hated being the one everyone had to worry about. She began to stand, but you shook your head and led Bucky back to his seat. Karen gave you a confused look as she sank back down.

“Bucky wants to tell you about the time he stole a motorcycle.” Now it was Bucky’s turn to look confused; he stared at you.

“…I do?” he asked, and you nodded. You held his left hand in both of yours on top of the table, exposed and unashamed; if Karen noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it.

“Um, yeah. Okay,” he said slowly. “We— the unit, the Howlies— were in Italy, so I guess it was 1944, and…”

Both you and Karen laughed at his story, and even Bucky cracked a nervous smile. He felt better, talking about good memories like that. When he was finished, you looked at the time on your phone. “Well, it’s getting late,” you said pointedly.

“Right,” Karen said, and she pushed her notebook toward Bucky. He turned it around to read it; she hadn’t written anything down past “experimental formula- NO CONSENT- forced as POW.” He closed his eyes, but nodded and passed the book back to her.

“I’ll be in touch,” Karen said. “Call me whenever you’re ready to continue. Thank you for speaking with me, Serg— Bucky.”

The nap Bucky took that afternoon, with his much larger frame wrapped safely in your arms, rivaled any therapy hangover nap. His dreams were unsteady— shadowy figures in his peripheral, a foreboding feeling bubbling in his chest. But when the shadows got a bit too close and he jolted awake, your warm skin and steady heartbeat were all that he felt.

Bucky didn’t look up when he walked into the apartment. “Package,” he muttered under his breath as the door shut behind him. You glanced at him from your spot on the couch, but not quickly enough; you had to lean to the side and swat the package to the floor to keep it from hitting you directly in the face.

The box bounced to a stop in the middle of the living room, and Bucky grinned. He had made a bit of a game of this— you didn’t have the most effective reflexes, but at least they were… entertaining.

“Hope it wasn’t fragile, dumbass.” You scowled unconvincingly; the corners of your lips twitched up when your saccharine gaze met his. “What’d you order?”

“Nothing. It’s yours.”

“Well I didn’t order anything.”

“Got your name on it.”

Tension surged as you both stared at the medium-sized rectangular box, now lying on its side next to the coffee table. You leaned over to pick it up, but Bucky beat you there.

He lifted the box with newfound attention. Nothing about it had felt off when he carried it upstairs, but he hadn’t had a reason to be suspicious then. He weighed it in his hand and listened to the contents slide around when he moved it: something soft, like fabric, and the quiet crinkle of tissue paper. Satisfied with its harmlessness, he passed the package to you, and you checked the label. Your shoulders stiffened.

“It's… from my parents,” you said haltingly. You almost looked like you were going to set the box back down, but with a sigh you reluctantly tore it open. Bucky was right; you had to peel crinkly white paper away to see what was inside. You slowly pulled the fabric out of the box, and your nose wrinkled in disgust when you realized what it was.

A crisp black suit, complete with a pencil skirt, creased from how it was cheaply packaged. And underneath it, a card with your name on it. You unceremoniously ripped the envelope open and glanced at the message inside; your lip immediately curled into a snarl, and you tossed it to the coffee table. You almost climbed to your feet, but Bucky stopped you.

“What is it?” he asked.

You scoffed. “A suit,” you said, “for all my interviews that I’m going to go on when I leave this place. Just what I wanted to be reminded of. Right. Great.”

Panic surged through his veins. When you leave this place? Bucky quickly did the math in his head; it was nearly November, so you had just over two months left here at the compound. Oh, fuck. How had time gotten away from him like that? Of course you’d be making plans for after.

You were too busy seething to notice how Bucky had frozen with a blank, wide-eyed expression on his face, a dead giveaway to his racing thoughts. “Happy birthday to me,” you muttered as you slumped sideways onto the couch cushions.

Wait. Bucky looked at you sharply. “…When is that, again? Your birthday?”

“Uh… what day is it now? Thursday?” You held up your fingers to count. “It’s… four days from now. Monday.” You sighed and settled further into the couch. “Of course it’s a fucking Monday. Gross.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. He turned to you, his eyes betraying his frustration, his almost angry bewilderment.

“What?” you asked, taken aback by the intensity of his expression.

“How did I not know?” He was absolutely certain he hadn’t forgotten; he had never known in the first place. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice shook slightly. “What the fuck,” he said under his breath, more to himself than to you. “How am I missing stuff like this?”

Bucky loved you, he knew that for sure. And he knew you. He knew the rhythm of your breaths when you slept, and what you looked like when you first woke up, and how you took your coffee in the morning. He knew what made you laugh, what made you cry, and what scared you so deeply that you wouldn’t sleep if you thought about it. He knew what kind of music you liked, knew the songs you kept on repeat, and the ones that reminded you of so much pain that you could no longer bear to listen to them.

He knew how fiercely loyal you were, and how your sense of self preservation went out the window when you felt someone you loved had been wronged. He knew what it meant when you looked at him with that mischievous glint in your eye, and what it meant when you wrapped your arms around yourself so tightly that your nails left indents in your skin. But something as simple as a birthday? How the fuck did he not know that?

“It doesn’t matter,” you said with a shrug and a dismissive shake of your head.

Bucky collapsed onto the couch next to your and grabbed your arm, and your mouth dropped open slightly at his vehemence. He couldn’t hide the way his low voice trembled. “Everything matters.”

It was true— everything about you mattered to him. God, how could he be your boyfriend— your boyfriend? He gulped. How could he be anything to you without knowing such crucial, basic information?

He exhaled, releasing some of his intensity with his breath. “Your birthday is in four days,” he said. “What do you want to do for it?”

“Nothing,” you said, and maybe on the surface it looked like you were telling the truth— but Bucky knew better. Your eyes shifted away from him, your shoulders hunched. “Seriously, it’s no big deal,” you continued. “I’m… surprised they even remembered it.” Something in your tone changed when you looked back at the card from your parents. “They probably put it on the calendar this year just so they could send me that suit,” you said bitterly. “That’s the exact kind of fucked up, passive aggressive bullshit they would do.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but he didn’t quite know what to say. “But do you want to… celebrate?”

“No,” you said, quickly shaking your head. “I’m not— I don’t…” you sighed. “I usually just go to a Halloween party and pretend,” you mumbled. “The days are close enough.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped; that was one of the saddest fucking things he had ever heard.

“We’ve gotta talk,” he said. You turned back to him, your fragile face threatening to crumple.

He pressed his lips to your forehead. “I want you to tell me everything,” he breathed. “Everything.”

The next several hours were spent going over every detail you could think of. Both of you talked about your families, the houses you grew up in, your favorite stories from when you were kids. Bucky told you about going to school in the 1920s and 30s, how he’d tag along to Steve’s art classes even though he could barely draw a decent stick figure, and when he had to leave to get his first job on the docks. You told him about your favorite elementary school teacher, your childhood hobbies, and the girls who bullied you so badly that you faked sick to stay home as often as you could.

Bucky almost melted from the way you watched him, listening eagerly as he spoke about the most mundane moments of his life, and you both teared up when he told you more about his time spent healing in Wakanda. You didn’t miss the way Bucky scowled when you talked about your parents, or how he wrapped a protective arm around your shoulders when you tallied up your heartbreaks.

Finally, after you both had exhausted every last memory in your brains, Bucky felt at ease. This was how it was supposed to be. This closeness, this knowledge, was more intimate than sex could ever be.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know your birthday,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

You hushed him. “It’s fine,” you said. “Now you know.”

But it wasn’t fine. Because he only had four days.

Bucky had done a good job of hiding it from you; at least, he thought he did. You sat together on the couch after dinner on Sunday evening, just reading, his right arm tucked around your shoulders. You were engrossed in your book, but through his haze of excitement Bucky couldn’t get those little black marks on the page to turn into words. When he glanced at the clock on his phone for the umpteenth time, you gave him a much deserved odd look, but he just shrugged; he couldn’t help it.

When it was finally seven o’clock, Bucky closed his book and leaned over to speak against your ear. “Baby,” he said, his low voice hardly masking his eagerness. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

You looked up at him, doe-eyed in your confusion until you caught sight of his shit-eating grin. Your own expression turned into a mulish frown, but that didn’t deter him.

“C’mon,” he said. “Go get dressed up.” Your frown didn’t budge, but there was a growing glimmer in your eyes. “Nothing fancy,” he said with a peck against your cheek. “Stay comfortable. But we’re going out.”

“We can’t go out,” you said flatly as you marked your page.

“Okay, maybe not out out. Just go get ready. Please? Please.”

You didn’t try to hide your snicker. “Well, I guess if you’re going to beg.”

You changed quickly: sweatpants to jeans, a nice shirt, and a necklace Bucky hadn’t seen before. That was a good sign. He didn’t bother with a jacket or gloves before he led you to the elevator, and you noticed.

“Where are we going?”

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close so he could speak with his lips against your hair— that sweet scent that drove him so crazy. “I told ya I was going to take you to the movies, didn’t I?”

You forced the corners of your mouth down to hide your smile. “You did.” During that hazy fantasy you had talked him through so long ago, when you blurred the lines between past and present, he told you he would’ve taken you to the movies for your second date. Make out in the back row like a couple of kids.

He meant it, just like he meant every single word he said to you, every promise. He was going to keep them all.

When Bucky opened the heavy doors to the theater room and you saw the setup, you dug your heels in.

Okay, sure, maybe it looked like a lot. But Bucky didn’t have much trouble putting it together at all. The projection system was foolproof, and he was able to order the other things online— the microwave popcorn, the candy, some different types of soda. He had searched the new releases and found some fantasy movie that came out a month ago with good reviews— and he had it queued up and waiting on the projection screen.

You turned to him, your familiar frown returning while he poured two drinks. “I said I didn’t want to do anything for my birthday.”

“Nothing?” he wheedled as he turned to you. “Not even cake?” He tempted you with a lopsided smile and took a sip of his drink.

You stepped closer to him, and before he realized what was happening, you reached around with both arms to squeeze two handfuls of his ass. “Got all the cake I need right here.”

Soda didn’t quite snort out of Bucky’s nose, but it was close; he turned his head to spare you while he sputtered, but you didn’t let go of him.

“Why are you like this?” he asked when he could speak without choking.

You shrugged innocently and looked up at him with that telltale glint in your eyes. “Why do you like me like this?”

He shook his head slowly, a sheepish grin taking over his face while he coughed to clear more carbonation out of his throat. “Well, good thing it’s not your birthday,” he said with a shrug. “That’s tomorrow. So tonight, this is just a date.”

This little theater room was exceptionally nice; Bucky appreciated the decision to substitute normal movie theater seats with plush leather couches, because that meant he could keep his arms wrapped tightly around you for the entire movie.

You stretched out together on one of the couches, and when the credits rolled, you glanced over your shoulder to find his eyes glued to you. “I didn’t think you were still awake,” you said teasingly.

“Of course I’m awake.” He kissed the side of your face.

“Your hands were still.”

He grinned— it had taken an ungodly amount of self control, but he had been trying very hard to let you focus on the movie. “Well, I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

You snorted, and Bucky shrugged playfully. You had both chosen to ignore the way he had stiffened against your backside, throbbing occasionally, during the film’s one sex scene. He couldn’t help it— it was… a lot for him, if he was honest. He had heard of blue movies back in the day, but he’d never seen one for himself— and even now, with everything on the internet, he hadn’t quite acclimated. He couldn’t wrap his head around how people watched those kinds of things in public.

“You were very good,” you murmured to him, the combination of your words and your sultry tone sending a jolt of lightning through his core. You rolled over and traced your fingers down his abdomen, but he recoiled when they reached his waistband.

“No,” he said quietly. “S’posed to be for you.”

“It’s a date,” you said, and he shivered when your lips met his earlobe. “Isn’t this how you’d want a date to end?”

Well, yeah, but… “It’s your birthday,” he mumbled. You grinned wickedly when he finally admitted it, and glanced at your phone.

“It’s not my birthday for another ten minutes,” you said as you sank to your knees on the floor in front of him. “Now take off your belt.”

Bucky groaned, and he couldn’t believe he was doing it, but he placed a hand on your shoulder and held you at bay. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, and you pouted. “You can do anything you want to me later,” he promised, instantly regretting the words when your eyes widened with excitement. “But there’s something else I gotta show you.”

Bucky was nearly giddy as he led you through the dark to the common kitchen table and flicked on a single light. You glanced at the table, at the two plates and forks he had set out, then looked back to Bucky with narrowed eyes. He was standing with his back to you in front of the large commercial refrigerator. “I said I didn’t want anything,” you almost growled, but his smile only grew.

“I know,” Bucky said without turning around. “But you lied.” You dropped down into a chair with a halfhearted scoff.

The soft glow of the small light over the sink was just enough to chase the shadows away from your face. You were fighting hard to keep your mouth straight; it wasn’t clear if you were trying not to smile or frown.

Bucky turned around slowly, revealing the small cake he held on a platter with a flourish— but his smile immediately faded when he saw the tears welling in your eyes.

Shit. It was a small cake, maybe too small, hardly more than a glorified cupcake. And he had forgotten to buy candles— he found some in the cabinets earlier but they were mismatched, haphazardly stuck into the frosting at odd angles— he should’ve spent more time arranging them nicely. His expression must have dropped as far as his heart did, because you sniffed and shook your head slightly, a smile cracking across your lips. You beckoned to him, and he set the cake on the table and sat down across from you.

“You didn’t make that,” you said matter-of-factly, although your voice was thick.

He shook his head. “You didn’t hear any fire alarms, did you?” he asked with a crooked smile. You huffed in agreement, and your smile grew, slowly becoming more natural. “I found a bakery in town that delivers,” he said. “I know it’s small, but I didn’t want to get too much with just the two of us.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, almost to yourself, as Bucky lit each candle in turn.

“Baby,” he said, suddenly deadly serious. “There’s just one thing.” You nodded and leaned toward him, perplexed, and he struggled to keep the smile off his face. “I'm sorry, but I’m not going to sing to you.”

You laughed. “That’s it, that’s just too much,” you teased. “It’s all ruined.” But your smile told him exactly the opposite, and you leaned forward to blow out the candles.

Bucky knew he wasn’t supposed to wish, but after missing out on so many birthdays, he figured he was allowed a couple of extra wishes— and besides, the way you were looking at him gave him a sneaking suspicion that you had wished for the exact same thing.

When you were both finished with the cake, Bucky quickly washed the dishes in the sink while you nearly dozed off at the table. Well, he thought you were dozing— with his back turned, he didn’t notice the dreamy way you watched his every move. He was glad to have the dishes to keep his hands busy; he was growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally, he dried his shaky hands on the kitchen towel, and you stood up to leave.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said hurriedly. “One more thing.” He pulled something out of a cabinet and hurried to sit down across from you. Before he could change his mind, he held the gift out over the table.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, sitting up straight while you stared at the small black velvet box. You clutched your left hand in your right. “Bucky, I…” Emotion after emotion passed over your face as you glanced between Bucky and the little square box; terror, and excitement, and dismay, and… He hid his frown.

“I didn’t have anything to wrap it with,” he said apologetically as he handed it over. “Forgot about that part.” He made a mental note for next time: candles and wrapping paper.

You stared straight at the box as you took it into your shaky hands. Something about him passing it to you over the table like that seemed to calm you, and you took another deep breath as you sized it up in your hand; it was larger than your palm. But you gasped when you cracked the hinged box open and peeked inside, and your eyes flew to meet his as you slammed it shut again. Bucky’s smile was weak, uncertain, but he gave you a tiny nod. Keep going. Please, keep going. You opened the box fully and sucked in a reverent breath.

You plucked the bracelet from its velvet cushion with two fingers and let it dangle in front of you. The dainty gold chain rotated slowly in the air, and the row of faceted black gemstones reflected and refracted the dull light, their inky blackness somehow giving way to a bright shimmer.

The idea came to him that day in the shower, when you took his hand in your own and scrubbed at the black and gold, carefully washing away the shame that had encrusted it for too long. You paid it so much attention, touched it with so much tender care, that he could almost see it through your eyes— and just for a moment, his arm was a thing of beauty. It really was.

Bucky thought that maybe if you found that cursed arm so beautiful, then you would like something that was actually beautiful even more. And, selfishly, maybe it would remind you of him. After.

He watched you with bated breath while he waited for you to say something. Anything. Your eyes traveled between Bucky’s face and the bracelet, and you swallowed hard. You opened your mouth, but instead of speaking you clutched the bracelet to your chest and burst into tears.

Oh, no. “I-I can return it if you don’t like it, you can pick something else—” He suddenly realized how stupid this was. You rarely wore jewelry, why did he think you’d want jewelry— And how fucking arrogant of him, how deluded to think you’d want something like this, something to remind you of him— of his— he gulped— his weapon—

“Are you kidding me?” you sobbed. Those were the only words you managed to choke out, but your grip on the bracelet never loosened. Bucky watched you nervously, his thoughts racing so quickly that he couldn’t grab hold of any of them. Maybe… maybe you didn’t hate it. But when you hiccuped a pained breath, he realized with a sinking feeling that your tears weren’t slowing.

He jumped up from his chair and hurried to your side of the table. Standing behind you, he wrapped his arms tightly around your shoulders, which only made you cry harder, but you were smiling now—

Either Bucky did something wrong, or he did something really, really right.

“Thank you,” you finally managed to say during a break in the tears. “I love it.” You slipped it over your left hand and tightened the chain. It sparkled in the shadows, much brighter than the metallic luster of his arm next to it, but still a perfect match.

Bucky smiled as he nuzzled his lips against your ear, and the words slipped out before he could stop them: “I love you.”

He froze as soon as he realized what he said. He held his breath, waiting for the fallout, but he couldn’t step away because that would be too strange, it would draw too much attention— you hadn’t replied yet, so maybe you didn’t hear, and he could pretend it never happened—

He didn’t mean to say it. It wasn’t part of his plan. But seeing you like that, matching him, embracing it… if he had known the words to explain how much that meant to him, he would have said them. But there were only three words he knew that seemed big enough, important enough, to convey that monumental truth—

“I love you,” he said again, just because he wanted to hear it. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into an infectious smile even when you pulled away to look back at him.

“Wait,” you said, your voice unusually timid as you searched his eyes for any hint of a joke. “You’re serious?”

He nodded.

Heavy sobs shook your shoulders when you stood to throw your arms around his neck. Soft, incredulous laughter broke through your tears when he kissed you, and with your face smushed against his cheek the words didn’t come out quite right, but he heard them: “I love you, too.”

He scooped you up in his arms; anything to be closer to you. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your ear when you snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” That only made you cry harder, but it was okay— you were smiling. They were happy tears, and he couldn’t blame you— nothing had ever been more deserving of happy tears in his life.

When you finally calmed down enough to speak, you pulled away slightly. “You know that’s not the first time you’ve said that to me, right?”

He blanched. “...What?”

You only laughed, and covered what you could reach of his face and neck in sweet kisses while he carried your back upstairs.

Your kisses turned needier and more frantic as soon as you reached the elevator, and it took all of Bucky’s willpower to force himself to walk steadily instead of sprinting to the bedroom.

He crashed through the apartment door, stumbling slightly as he finally gave in and raced down the hall. Bucky laid you onto the bed before falling forward to join you on top of the comforter. You giggled, but his lips never left your skin while he hastily removed your clothes. You lifted your hips so he could slide your jeans off down your legs, and he stood back to tear his own clothes off. But his breath caught at the view in front of him, and he paused.

“Bucky,” you said with a knowing smile. “You’re staring again.” Even so, you didn’t move to cover yourself.

“Never gonna stop staring,” he said with an unashamed shrug. He climbed back on top of your and rested his forearms on either side of your head.

“I love you,” he said again, the words still foreign but delicious on his tongue. The way you shut your eyes, your cheeks glowing, and practically fucking purred told him all he needed to know— so when you said the words back to him, that was just icing on the cake. Bucky’s lips came crashing down onto yours, and you grinned into the kiss. You hitched your knees up over his waist, tilting your pelvis up to meet his, and he rolled his hips against yours a few times in that way he knew you liked.

He leaned his weight on his left elbow so he could reach down and get you ready for him, but your hand on his wrist stopped him.

“Other hand,” you whispered breathlessly. “Please?”

There was a hesitation, and he tore his gaze from your chest back up to your eyes— his eyebrows furrowed, and he gulped. But you nodded, encouraging him. You wanted it. You did.

He shifted his weight and slowly, carefully, traced his left hand over the hill of your breast, over the ledge where your ribs gave way to softness, and down to your thigh. Goosebumps followed his trail, either from the cool metal, his teasing touch, or both. He splayed his hand out wide over your thigh and rubbed this thumb against the tender skin there, so close to where you wanted him, but not quite enough. You let out a quiet groan and squirmed, wiggling your hips; if he wouldn’t put his hand where you needed it, you’d do it yourself, apparently. He grinned at that, and so lightly that it almost tickled, he drew a metal finger up through your dripping folds.

He was unprepared for the moan that broke free from you, and the way you immediately trembled under his touch. The temperature difference was astounding, he knew; the digits would warm up eventually, but for now they were like ice against your most sensitive skin. And judging from your whimpers, you liked it.

“Need it, need it, need it,” you chanted quietly.

He pushed one finger inside of you, and oh, fuck, that feeling— the warmth and enveloping pressure that those fingers had never felt, that those nerves had never experienced— he carefully inserted another finger, and when you shuddered, he did, too.

He was hesitant to use the hand too much, wary of its strength, but when his thumb pressed gently to your clit, you started rocking your hips against it. He was simply a passenger, a witness to this small miracle, and he watched with heavy-lidded eyes and a slack jaw while you took pleasure from a piece of him that he thought had none to offer.

“So good,” you panted. “Fuck— l-love you…”

His cock was leaking strings of pre-cum all over your thigh and the bedsheets, and it jumped when your pussy tightened around his fingers. It knocked the air from his lungs, that pressure, and he crooked his fingers and slotted his lips over yours to drink up all the beautiful sounds you made as you came.

Your body was still shaking from the aftershocks, but Bucky couldn’t get inside you fast enough. There was no waiting, no teasing; only that urgent need to be as close to you as possible. To be part of you. He gripped the base of his cock and nudged at your entrance, and he was met with a slick heat that made his hips jerk forward uncontrollably. Your moan when he entered you made his breath catch.

“God, I fucking love you,” he rasped against your lips. Fully sheathed, he gave you a moment to adjust, waiting for you to nod before his hips picked up an unrelenting rhythm.

You sucked in a harsh breath when he wrapped his metal arm under your hips and yanked them up, changing the angle so he could fuck even deeper inside of you without pulling his lips away from yours. You fluttered around him again, and he didn’t have the strength to even attempt to hold out against the delicious pressure that had been blooming in him for hours. He came with a raw shout against your neck, then continued to grind into you slowly while you both caught your breath.

Eventually Bucky rolled to the side, and you reached for him blindly. The bracelet dangled from your wrist, reflecting the moonlight that snuck in through the window.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it. The bracelet looked so beautiful on you, it was perfect— but he couldn’t help that piece inside of him that wished it was a ring.

Bucky didn’t know how much time passed as he lay there, watching you in the moonlight. After a while you sighed, and in the last few moments before sleep pulled you under, you spoke. “Love you, Buck. Always have.”

Bucky slammed his notebook shut when he heard your footsteps approaching from down the hall the next day. He chewed on the end of his pen, but he couldn’t wipe the guilt from his face quickly enough— you gave him a questioning glance as you walked over to where he was seated at the kitchen table.

“Dear diary,” you said in a mockingly deep voice, and when he didn’t stop you, you continued.

“Dear diary, I might have overdone it last night.” He narrowed his eyes at you when he noticed that crazy gleam, but it was too late. “Bucky Jr. might need medical attention—” Bucky snorted and dropped his pen on the table— “he’s never been so exhausted. He put up a valiant fight, but waking up to my girlfriend’s soul-sucking powers is just too—”

Bucky blinked. “Girlfriend?”

You stared back at him with wide eyes, realizing your mistake at the same moment he did. “I-I mean, um, yeah, if you… fuck…” You turned away from him, your shoulders raised nearly to your ears, shielding you while you held your breath.

It took a moment for his brain to reboot. “Yes,” he said as quickly as he could. “Yes. Yeah, of course.

You turned back to him with a sparkling grin, as if that moment of doubt was already so far in your rear view mirror that it was just a blur. “What are you writing, though? Really?”

He sighed, and his voice came out too small as his mood deflated. “I’m… just trying to figure out how old I am,” he mumbled.

You shot a sideways glance at the closed notebook. “You said you were born in 1917.”

“I mean, yeah, but… I’m just… It’s more complicated than that.” His first instinct was to clam up, or lie— but no. No more secrets. “I’m trying to figure out how often Hydra had me out of cryo,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to keep track… easier if I write it down. And I’d just… rather you not see that.”

Because the easiest way for him to track how often he was awake was to follow along with the reports of his crimes. He had looked up the charges and testimonies from court to get a general sense, but what was left unanswered was just how long he was out of cryo each time. He didn’t know how much prep he got; he couldn’t remember if they pulled him out and trained him, or if they just gave him his mission and sent him off. And what about the missions that were so successful that they were never discovered? He clenched his teeth; he was getting frustrated by the nebulosity of it all.

“It’s okay,” you told him softly. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It does,” he said forcefully, but his voice broke slightly with his next words. “Because I don’t— I don’t know how much longer—”

“What?” you stepped closer beside him and placed a calming hand on the back of his neck. He could tell from your unbothered tone that you weren’t following, you didn’t get it—

“I… hear me out, okay?” he said, and you nodded as you rubbed lazy circles against his skin. He sighed. “I always assumed I’d die in a fight.” He expected you to protest that, but you didn’t. “But what if… what if maybe, I don’t? What if I get to live out my life, however much is left of it?”

You smiled gently. “That doesn’t seem like a bad thought to have.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. But… How am I supposed to know how much time I have left?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I could figure it out and do the math, but there’s so much time that’s just… blank. Too many variables. And the fucking serum, too, I don’t know…”

“Bucky, no one knows how much time they have left.”

Bucky shook his head, still agitated. “It’s different. Steve was in the ice for seventy years, right? And he came out looking pretty much like he looked in 1944.” He waited for you to nod. “Well, I think I look… older. Not by much,” he said quickly when you started to disagree. His hand stroked his beard, hesitating at the gray patch of hair. “But there’s something… Steve wasn’t awake at all through those years. But I was.”

“We can ask Dr. Banner,” you murmured, and that made Bucky’s heart jolt because you were acknowledging his fear— and if you were acknowledging it, that meant it was justified— “We can call him tomorrow and ask him to research it, and then you can see him as soon as he’s back. Run some tests or something.” Bucky just shook his head.

“He can’t research. There is no research. It’s me and Steve.”

You didn’t have any way to refute that. “Why are you so worried about this right now?”

“Because what if I'm in good shape but my body still has an expiration date, and I die in like, a couple years?” And leave you behind. “Or what if I’ve got decades to go still, even out of the ice, and I—” He’d have to spend all that time without you.

Somehow, you heard the unspoken part of his thoughts. “You’re here with me now.” You stepped completely behind him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your chin coming to rest at the top of his head.

“But how long?” He winced when his voice broke again. “How long will I be here with you? I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to leave you. But maybe I…”

“Bucky,” you said sharply. A warning. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s too late. Yes, if you die it will hurt me. You’re not going to make it hurt any less by leaving me.” He knew from your tone that you were glaring at him, even as you pressed a kiss to his hair. “That'd hurt even more— losing you twice.” Your voice was smaller now. “Please don’t make me lose you twice.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath. His heartbeat was slowing slightly. You were right, of course you were.

“Your birthday is March tenth, 1917,” you murmured into his ear. “That’s all that matters. That’s all I care about.”

“Yeah, well, that’s still fucking weird,” he grumbled. He felt a little grumpy now, but at least the panic had subsided.

“Would you want to do something fun? It’s not every day that someone turns…” you quickly did the math in your head, “one hundred and five.”

He groaned. “Don’t say that,” he said. Talking about his age freaked him out a little bit, if he was honest. “I don’t want a party. I’ve had too many birthdays.”

“How many were you able to celebrate like you deserve?” He was silent at that, and he felt you grin because you knew you had won. “And I wasn’t talking about a party.” You loosened your arms and stepped to the side. “What about something with just you and me?” He looked up at you, the tension creeping away from his shoulders, his eyes softening.

His birthday was in March. You wanted to do something with him in March— you were still going to be with him in March— but where would you—? After December, what would he—?

“What…” He cleared his throat. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something quiet,” you said. “Peaceful. Maybe we could go somewhere? Make a little vacation out of it.”

God, that would be nice— so much freedom after all this time stuck inside. He felt a stinging behind his eyes and blinked several times to soften it.

“How does that sound? Anywhere you wanna go?”

“I always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

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He hadn’t woken up next to Steve in a long time. He smiled a bit; it felt incredibly natural, seeing him here. From when they were kids and Steve’s hair was still white-blond, to that old Brooklyn apartment, to the multitudes of camps and barracks overseas, to the hut in Wakanda— Steve’s tousled hair and sleeping face were tattooed into his mind. But then Bucky frowned, because something about Steve’s face was different now— the slight bruises on his cheekbones that had almost faded away. The days-old stubble. The dried, salty tracks down his cheeks where tears had escaped.

Steve was sad. And Bucky was sad, too, even though he couldn’t remember why.

A soft snore came from Bucky’s other side, and his breath caught when he realized. You.

You were there, too— it all came rushing back to him. All of his mornings waking up next to you, your skin flooded by the same shuttered light that now drenched Steve. Your hair, darker than Steve’s when you lay in that same spot, reflected the sunlight differently— faceted gemstones rather than honey, but sweet all the same.

You were on the other side of the bed now, shadowed from the light. Your soft breath against the exposed skin of Bucky’s right arm felt so natural, so normal, that he almost didn’t register it.

He remembered how you let Steve in last night— finally, mercifully. Confusingly, because Bucky thought you would have crucified Steve because of his mistake on the mission, but…

For whatever reason, you let him in. You told him to stay. You— Bucky swallowed roughly. You almost left, so that Steve could stay—

Despite how the tendons in his neck and the pounding in his forehead protested, Bucky started to turn toward you, but something behind Steve caught his eye. On the nightstand, Bucky watched Steve’s phone as it lit up, again and again, silent notifications coming through one after another.

Fuck. He remembered the tour. They were already a day behind— maybe two. Shit. Bucky didn’t know what day it was, but he knew Steve shouldn’t be here.

In the deluge of numbers Bucky didn’t recognize, some familiar contacts came through— he saw Natasha’s name on the phone screen. And Sam’s. And Fury’s, and Stark’s, and…

“Hey,” Bucky whispered, his voice low and raspy with sleep as he ducked toward Steve’s ear. “Steve. Stevie?”

Steve stirred, looking up at Bucky with bleary eyes. He reached for Bucky automatically, but Bucky winced before Steve’s hand made contact with his hip, and that made Steve pause— “You should get up,” Bucky said, letting out the breath he had held in case of pain. “It’s late.”

Steve looked at him blankly, still not fully awake, not completely sure where he was. But when his eyes focused on Bucky’s he smiled, and damn, that was a smile— all pearly teeth and full, pink lips. Bucky couldn’t resist smiling back, but— “C’mon,” he urged softly. “You gotta go. The tour.”

Steve processed his words this time, and there was an expression on his face that Bucky couldn’t recognize. Something like annoyance, and bitterness, and resolve. Steve’s large hands patted over the comforter, searching for his phone. “I can— wait— I’ll tell ‘em—” he mumbled, his eyes averted.

Bucky gestured toward the nightstand, and when Steve finally grabbed his phone, his eyes widened at the number of notifications. “Oh, shit.” He looked back at Bucky, his eyebrows drawn with worry. Bucky could see the struggle behind his eyes as he was torn between the two places he was needed yet again.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said, answering Steve’s thoughts. “I’m okay.”

Steve brought the inside of his cheek between his molars, a mannerism that Bucky wasn’t used to seeing from him— because it was one of his own. “I don’t know, Buck. Are you sure? I can stay—”

Bucky forced a smile. “Good as new,” he lied, and they both chuckled knowingly at his stubbornness— his smile was a grimace, his teeth clenched behind his lips.

“Okay, yeah,” Bucky admitted lightly. “Everything hurts. But I feel less like I’m dying now.” You snored again, and Bucky had to resist turning back to look at you. “And I’ve got…” He trailed off, because Steve knew.

Steve’s hand found his in the sheets, squeezing softly. A final, wordless ask. A confirmation.

Bucky nodded. “They need you. Go do what you gotta do, Captain.”

Steve shook his head. “You know I hate when you call me that.”

“I know.” Bucky gave Steve a cheeky wink, and he knew Steve would’ve swatted at him if he wasn’t so bruised up. Instead he gave Bucky a torn look, fighting with himself, before leaning in to plant a soft kiss on his forehead. Bucky closed his eyes.

The mattress moved with the shift of Steve’s weight when he stood, and you popped up behind Bucky’s shoulder. Your hair was wild, and you muttered something incomprehensible before your half-shut eyes found Steve, already halfway across the bedroom. “Shteve?”

Steve froze and turned back, that petrified deer-in-the-headlights look plastered across his face, and Bucky almost laughed— it was a look he recognized from when they were kids, when Steve was caught doing something he shouldn’t. Guilty. Panicked. Apologetic.

Steve was leaving, and he knew you were going to be mad, and he— he was scared of you. As much as Steve wouldn’t show it, Captain America was scared of plenty of things— normally, he could put on the mask and work through it. But here in this bedroom with you, entirely harmless even though you didn’t seem to know you were harmless, or at least you absolutely didn’t accept it— you were currently inflating like a helium balloon ready to burst with your half-asleep rage— Bucky quickly turned his head to you.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “He’s gotta get going. I told him to go.” His words were pinpricks into your angry exterior and slowly, slowly, you let out your breath. Your cheeks were hot, but Bucky succeeded; he had extinguished the fire before it began. “It’s okay,” he repeated. Your sleepy eyes found Bucky’s and your features softened; he was telling the truth. You nodded weakly, and with a dismissive wave of your hand you flopped back down onto the bed.

“I’ll be back soon,” Steve said, to both of you. “I swear. As soon as I can. And I’ll call tonight to check…” He trailed off, and with one last half-smile and a lame wave, he let himself out.

Bucky waited for the pain to come, for his heart to join in the chorus of pain throughout his body. He had pushed Steve away again, because it always hurt less when it was his choice, when Bucky wasn’t begging him to stay— but this time, that pain never came. No agony of being abandoned, no anguish of not feeling important enough to make him stay.

Actually, he felt… okay. He felt fine.

Maybe it was because his physical pain was so overwhelming, and he didn’t have any neurons, any synapses left to devote to emotional pain.

Or maybe it had something to do with the soft snores coming from the pillow behind him.

The next time Bucky opened his eyes, he was looking straight at you. He bared his teeth almost immediately; he wasn’t sure how he managed to roll onto his side, but he definitely shouldn’t have. He could feel each of his muscles and tendons as they stretched across his bones, the weakened cords that held him in place like cabled bridges over the valleys of his body.

But he didn’t roll back over. He didn’t want to lay on his back again, because like this, he could see you. The dark circles under your eyes that sleep hadn’t touched, and your wild hair, messy from having fallen asleep while it was still wet. Your slightly open pout, the slope of your nose that fit so perfectly against his. The steady calm beat of your heart, the soft pull of breath between your parted lips.

Only one word flashed through his mind: lucky.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away as the word looped over and over through his consciousness.

Lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky.

After a while, you woke to find him staring at you. You looked at him with your heavy-lidded eyes and grinned immediately, and that sleepy voice emerged: “Breakfast?”

He could have handed you his heart right there. He should have. “Yeah.”

You slithered out of bed, unused to sleeping up against the wall like you had, and stumbled slightly before you headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring it— stay right there,” you called over your shoulder. But you ducked back into the doorway, a frown etched deep on your face when you heard the bed creak.

“You shouldn’t— Bucky, don’t—” Your words were cut off by a gasp when Bucky hefted himself into a sitting position in one motion.

Oh, fuck, that was something, that was— Bucky’s head spun and he grimaced as his thoughts failed him. He had to close his eyes and take a few seconds to breathe. Four seconds in, eight seconds out, deep and slow and hissed through his teeth— wait, no. After a moment he gathered his strength, and you watched him with narrowed eyes as he turned to hang his legs over the side of the bed.

“I guess there’s no point in telling you to stop?” you asked flatly, already knowing the answer. Bucky glanced up at you, gave a quick grin to meet your glare, and shook his head. You huffed out a sigh and came back to hover over him as he slowly added weight to his feet. His muscles shook, his thighs trembled, but he stood.

You moved together down the hall at a glacial pace, and Bucky dropped down onto a stool as soon as he reached the kitchen island. You started coffee while he caught his breath; he might as well have run a marathon with the way his chest was heaving. A mug of coffee appeared in front of him, and he plastered a smile on his face as he sipped it— you always added too much sugar for his taste, but he wasn’t about to complain.

You had been working on your omelets ever since that catered breakfast, and you started to gather the ingredients— eggs, spinach, peppers. But any appetite Bucky had been building suddenly vanished, and he stared down at his coffee. He swallowed roughly before he found his voice.

“Thank you for last night.” The liquid in his mug rippled over the surface as he fidgeted with the ceramic handle.

You didn’t turn to him when you spoke, placing a pan on the stove instead. “I mean, I didn’t want blood in the bed, either,” you said with a lighthearted lilt. You were trying to shrug him off, trying to move on, but Bucky couldn’t let you. It wasn’t that simple.

“No, I mean… for everything.” There was something about his tone, a tremble, an uncertainty, that made you pause. You switched the burner off— another lesson learned the hard way— and walked over to rest your elbows on the island across from him. You looked straight at Bucky, but he couldn’t hold your gaze. “For the… the shower, yeah, and for coming to get me. And everything that happened downstairs.” He gulped. “And for Steve.”

You sighed, and your lips hardened into a straight line, but you didn’t speak.

“I know that was, uh, a lot for me to ask,” he continued. But it really did help. His two favorite people. Despite his pain, despite the stress of the last several days, he couldn’t have slept better if he tried.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Of course.” You swallowed hard, and your eyes flickered down before you continued. “Can I ask you something?”

The intensity in your eyes burned when Bucky glanced up, but he didn’t let himself look away. You were quiet for a moment before the words tumbled out.

“Did you guys, uh…” A nervous smile flashed across your face before you squashed it. “Were you… together, while you were away?” Then, quieter: “Did you kiss him?”

You clearly regretted asking the moment the words left your mouth— you turned beet red, shook your head, and straightened up to return to the stove. “God, I’m sorry, that’s stupid—”

Did Steve tell you they did? Christ— Bucky shook his head vehemently. “No,” he said, his voice low and serious. “No.”

Had he wanted to? Maybe. There were moments, in the quiet while they tried to sleep, that Bucky couldn’t help but wonder. But he didn’t act on it, and Steve never once put him in a position where he had to say no outright. Despite how stupid Steve could be, he really did have Bucky’s best interests at heart.

He knew Bucky didn’t want to try again. He just didn’t know that the reason— Bucky’s reason for saying no, if it had come to that— had shared a bed with them last night.

At least, Bucky didn’t think he knew.

“Last night was the closest we’d been. I swear.” His eyes bored into yours, because he needed you to believe him. Except—

Bucky looked down and mumbled as the memory came back. “But I think he held me down on the jet, during— I don’t really remember—”

“Oh, you mean when you were trying to kill Sam?”

Bucky blanched, but you were smirking when he looked up. “Steve and I talked a little while you were asleep.” Your tone was light, but Bucky didn’t like the sound of that— “I think you owe poor Sam an apology,” you said. “And several hundred favors.”

He sighed. “I know.” You were silent, and the pause turned awkward. You took his empty mug to the sink, and spoke without facing him.

“Steve said you wanted him to tell me something.”

Oh. Right. Fuck.

When he was lying in the jet, slipping in and out of consciousness. When he was delirious from the pain, when he thought it might actually be the end for him. He told Steve to tell you— but, wait. Did he even tell Steve? He couldn’t remember the words leaving his mouth, but that whole block of time was fuzzy in his mind. Just the occasional voice or sensation breaking through the overwhelming static of pain and fear and regret.

You continued on in the silence. “He said I should ask you.” You paused for a beat, and turned to him. “What did you want Steve to tell me?”

Bucky was a child on his first day at a new school, called up in front of the class to introduce himself— information so basic, so integral to his being that he should’ve been able to say it in his sleep. My name is James Barnes, but please call me Bucky. But he clammed up, adrenaline coursing through his veins, frozen with stage fright—

My name is James Bucky Barnes, and I love you.

“I— I don’t remember.” He had to close his eyes because he was dizzy all of a sudden, disoriented.

“Hey.” Your soft voice sounded far away, even as you moved closer. “You feelin’ okay?”

He gulped. “A little… hazy. It’ll be fine.”

He managed to stomach a couple of eggs, but even after the food and caffeine he still felt tired, like he couldn’t quite shake the fog from his brain. It was a familiar feeling— the remnants of a concussion, probably. Nothing he wasn’t used to. Nothing the serum and a little hot water couldn’t fix.

You had been leaning on the opposite side of the island, watching him eat. You had that strange look on your face— that Sarah Rogers look, but with an added intensity that made him sweat and melt into a puddle at your feet at the same time.

Bucky really did think you could read minds sometimes. It wasn’t unheard of; he’d met people with stranger abilities.

“I’m gonna shower,” he told you.

You didn’t miss a beat. “I’m coming with you.”

He smiled, and huffed. Of course you were.

Bucky felt a little better now, in the water. Standing was more manageable, and he was moving a bit easier already. That serum worked quickly, and the calories and stretching his legs had helped. He glanced down at his chest, at the lumps of bruised flesh and the itchy black knots that held him together. He would be able to remove them soon enough.

When the water hit the sore muscles of his back, he closed his eyes in bliss. He felt every one of his hundred-plus years, senior citizen as he was. The bleeding had stopped, but his insides still felt pummeled, and his shoulder— fuck, his shoulder.

That shoulder always carried a baseline level of pain— skin wasn’t supposed to connect to metal, after all. But this was something else. A sharp pain radiating from deep inside of him, a sensation he had almost forgotten. The ache of use. The ache of exertion. A reminder of what his arm had done just days ago.

It was the right thing to do. Those agents were after Steve— he needed to stop them. He had his knives, and his guns, but the easiest weapon for him to use was the one hardwired straight to his brain.

He needed to do it. But it still felt fucking bad.

You had given him a head start while you grabbed fresh towels, and he stretched under the spray of water, rolling his shoulders while he waited for you. The sting he felt at first soothed into something mild.

When he opened his eyes, they were heavy and low. In his peripheral he caught sight of something red, something shiny, and he staggered sideways, instantly dizzy—

His left arm wasn’t silver. It was black and gold. Black and gold and red, covered in blood that dripped down his forearm, filling the channels and joints. He choked out a breath before he grabbed the arm with his right hand and dug his nails into the divots, the seams. To scrape the blood out, to peel it apart, he didn’t know—

“Buck?” you called, alarmed, and you stumbled into the shower and grasped his right wrist, pulling it away from himself. His eyes shot up to yours, and you slowly came into focus in the steam. You looked frightened as the water slowly soaked your hair, and your grip on his skin was as tight as you could make it. When he looked back down at his arm, the red had vanished. His arm was black and gold. He was fine.

He looked up at you with wide eyes. “‘M’okay,” he forced out. There was no blood on his arm, of course not— you had rinsed it all down the drain last night. His lip still trembled.

This arm, the black one, wasn’t nearly as tainted as his old silver one. The black arm had done nothing but good, hurt no one except for those who deserved it. He just… hadn’t seen that much blood on it before, not like he did during this mission. The black and gold was usually a comfort to him, a way to ground himself, but now he could see the red— and it was all too similar.

You couldn’t see the blood like he did, but you knew.

You reached for a wash cloth and wet it under the spray before you tugged at his left hand, your eyes on his silently asking for permission. He nodded, and you cleaned his arm yourself.

You were focused, unwavering in that gentle touch of cloth and skin against metal. Rubbing deep against every plate, every gold seam, even though there was nothing there to see— you made sure it was all gone, covered and replaced by this intimacy. New memories to replace the old.

Something about how your hands lingered over the metal, so gentle, just the same as you were with the rest of him— even though you knew the vibranium wasn’t injured, couldn’t feel pain— made the tension ease from his shoulders.

Your warm hands on him were proof. Proof that he was okay, that he was safe. That he was forgiven. Proof that even after what he had done, you loved him still.

He knew you did. He knew it.

When you were finished, you hung the cloth on a hook and gently turned his arm over. You stepped closer and brought his hand to your mouth, pressing soft kisses against the metal— his palm, then his wrist, right where his pulse would have been.

You trusted him implicitly. You knew his history, but you refused to see his arm as a weapon— you kissed his wrist without hesitation. You laced your fingers with his, pulling him close like you didn’t think twice about it.

Bucky knew you didn’t. That was the best part.

He could see it in your eyes that you wanted to wrap your arms around him, squeeze him tight, never let him out of your grasp again— but you stopped just a few inches away, because you couldn’t. It would hurt. But from this angle he could admire how you looked in the water, your hair slicked back and darkened, your skin glistening from the heat. How the droplets trailed down your bare skin, how they hung to your eyelashes as you blinked up at him. How your teeth bit down on your lower lip, and you smiled.

Bucky gulped. The way you found every crevice and crack in him, in his arm and his soul, sent shockwaves through his natural and artificial nerves alike. You glanced down when the swollen tip of his cock rubbed against your belly— he was hard against you, of course he was.

A blush rose to his cheeks, and his breath caught at the friction, but— “Ignore it. Ignore it,” he forced through clenched teeth. It would still hurt too much, the tightening of his muscles, the jerk of his hips. He wanted to. He shouldn’t. You pursed your lips to fight back a smile, but nodded before you took a deep breath.

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm?” Yeah, he was fucking horny, it was bothering him—

“The arm.”

“Oh.” Right. “It’s just… a lot to think about,” he said as he trailed his right hand over your shoulder. He couldn’t help himself. “A lot to remember.” His fingers traced your clavicle, the crook of your neck.

You looked down at his left arm, still cradled in your hands, and rubbed your thumb along a plate before you spoke. “What if you got rid of it?”

Got rid of it?

“You said that in Wakanda, before you got this arm, you didn’t have one. That they took the old one off when it was damaged.” You spoke carefully, and Bucky nodded. “And you did okay then? Without it?”

It took some getting used to. It hurt, first of all. The remaining nerves were raw, unused to the lack of any feedback, so they created their own— ghostly sensations that ranged from pins and needles to the agony of losing his arm the first time. And doing everyday tasks, like putting his hair up, had become impossible.

He knew that with some time, he would’ve figured it out. Adjusted. Adapted. But he never really tried, was never completely committed, because he knew a new arm was coming. Shuri told him she was designing something for him, so he waited. But yeah, he did okay. He nodded to answer your question.

“So could you just… do okay now? Without it?” Your hand traced up his bicep, over his shoulder to the seam where metal met skin. It was sore, but your featherlight touch raised goosebumps down his opposite arm.

“I could… I guess.” He hesitated before he continued— it shouldn’t matter, he shouldn’t ask, but— “It wouldn’t… be weird for you?”

Ha. He nearly laughed as soon as he said it. Like anything could be weirder than this cursed metal. You didn’t sign up for any of this shit.

“Of course not,” you said softly. He could see the sadness in your eyes— the fact that he even had to question it, that he even had to wonder, hurt you. But you smiled at him, and reached one hand up to tangle your fingers through his wet hair. “And you don’t need to put your hair in a ponytail anymore, so…”

He knew in his heart that you’d help him, do anything he needed until he figured out how to adapt. And maybe it would be nice; maybe people on the street wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe people would be more accepting of an ordinary amputee than of the former Winter Soldier. But…

“I… I need it.” He hated that he stumbled over his words, and he hated that they were true. He’d never feel peace without the arm, because he’d be vulnerable. The arm was a security blanket to him, shiny and solid and lethal.

“I don’t like being an asset,” he said slowly, “but I sure as hell don’t want to be a liability.”

You brought his blighted hand to your cheek, holding it against your skin as you nodded thoughtfully. You leaned into his touch, and his thumb wandered over to your mouth.

“You’re perfect as you are,” you mumbled, his thumb resting on your lip as you closed your eyes. “Every piece. Every part.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to say anything as he kissed you.

Showering had exhausted Bucky, and after he changed into fresh clothes he made his way back to bed. You followed and climbed under the covers after him, wrapping yourself around his vibranium arm. It couldn’t feel good for you, the solid, cool metal, but you didn’t seem to mind; you rested your head gently on his bicep like a pillow. It wasn’t quite the same as having your skin against his, but at least it didn’t hurt, and you both exhaled a comfortable breath.

Bucky closed his eyes, ready to sleep, but you started tracing your fingers along the seams; mindless, innocent motions, except that they weren’t. You turned, nuzzling your nose against the metal, and fuck, that was a lot, it was— he shuddered as a warmth spread through his nerves and under his skin. Your pillowy lips pressed against a plate, and Bucky clenched his teeth. The need he had felt in the shower was returning, and his dick was swelling with each stroke of your hand, each puff of breath— but he couldn’t— but it felt so good—

He forced himself to breathe slowly. He could enjoy this, enjoy your touch, for what it was. He didn’t have to make it weird, he didn’t have to take it too far. But each of your tender touches sent molten lightning through his blood, and it had been so long, his balls felt so heavy from his self-denial, and you were right there—

A groan escaped before Bucky could swallow it back, and you froze— you couldn’t tell if it was a groan of pleasure or of pain.

“Feels good, baby,” he murmured. “Please.” Keep going.

You didn’t have to be told twice— your fingers started to explore, passing the confines of his arm and traveling up the length of his throat. Your thumb rubbed across his earlobe, then down his bruised cheekbone to his mouth. The split in his lip was nearly healed, now just a jagged pink ridge, and a puff of hot breath greeted your fingers before they continued on their journey.

They moved south, tracing through the dip of his collarbone, the crest of his sternum, then across to circle one pert nipple. He bit down on his lip as you kept going, mapping a trail around his stitches, keeping your distance from his injuries as you worked your way lower.

Fuck, he felt it deep in his skin, in his bones, at the tip of his tongue. That bolt of liquid heat that gathered in his hips because you just kept going, the sensations kept growing and building until—

“Stop,” he gasped, his chest heaving. You pushed away instantly, panicked.

“What’s wrong?” you asked from the edge of the bed. “Oh, fuck, did I hurt you?” He couldn’t even take a deep breath, with how the fabric felt when he shifted— “Bucky, say something. Please.”

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his stomach trembled as the warm drop of pleasure spread beneath his skin. More, it demanded.

“Get on top. Please.”

You were silent, confused, but he wouldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t. “What?” you asked softly.

He didn’t have time for this— “Need it, need you.” His thoughts turned to baseball, to the drudgery of paperwork, to his favorite way to load the dishwasher.

“Buck, I—”

“Baby.” His voice came out harsher than intended, but it was made up for by the whine that followed. “M’gonna come,” he whimpered. “Please.”

“What?” you repeated, your voice sharp with disbelief. “Were you—?” You looked over him to locate his right hand, but no— his fist was clenched in the sheets.

You pulled the blankets back and looked down at his hard cock as it strained against his boxer briefs, a patch of pre-cum already darkening the fabric. A wicked grin spread across your face when it twitched threateningly.

“It’s okay, baby.” Your voice transformed completely into something low, something sultry, and you pressed your body against his arm again. “God, I love how sensitive you are.”

He made some unintelligible protest, but it only encouraged you. “Come for me,” you said against his ear. “Let go, let me see—”

“No,” he growled. You couldn’t talk like that—

You backed off instantly. “Does it still hurt?” He shook his head, but that was a lie. It did hurt, but not enough for him to stop this.

“No. Just.” He clenched his jaw as a fiery blush spread across his cheeks. “Wanna come in you,” he mumbled. It was stupid, now that he was saying it out loud, but— “Been waiting for you.”

You met his eyes with a broken expression. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he implored, the last of his dignity slipping away. “Just get on top. Please, baby—”

“But the bruises—”

“They’re fine. Please, I need it.”

Bucky nearly lost it when you pulled your shirt over your head. “Fuck me,” he groaned, both a curse and a plea. “Baby, baby, need to feel you. Gotta come inside you, honey, c’mon.”

He was almost embarrassed by his desperation, his begging, but he was simply a passenger as the words left his mouth on their own accord. His left hand grabbed gently at your hip, luring you closer to him, closer to where he needed you.

You wiggled out of your own pants, and when you carefully pulled Bucky’s boxers away, he bit back a strangled sort of noise. The air was chilly against the pre-cum that had leaked from him, and the temperature contrast made his breath catch. “Hurry—”

You swung your leg over his hips— too slowly, too carefully— and the thrilled, tiny exhale you let out when you glanced down at his sticky arousal took the air straight from his lungs. His cock thumped hard against his stomach, and you smirked when he gasped. You were enjoying this; of course you were.

Under other circumstances, Bucky would’ve wanted you to take your time. He would’ve wanted you to go slow, sink down on him inch by inch, get used to being stretched around him again. But he couldn’t wait, and you knew— you gripped his base and clenched your jaw as you sheathed him fully in one motion.

That sudden change from wanting to having, your velvety warmth, the wet, the way you were so ready for him— Bucky stuttered out a breathy moan. His muscles were quivering, and it hurt, but it didn’t matter— he was right there—

“O-oh, fuck. Shit. Gonna be so quick,” he choked out as his cock twitched inside you. “I’m sorry baby, you just feel too fucking good. Oh fuck, I can’t— I’m gonna—”

“Give it to me, Buck.” You gave the tiniest grind of your hips. “You’ve been savin’ it for me, so fill me up. Let me have it. Let go, baby.”

He reached toward you with both hands— to do what, he didn’t know. He wasn’t in control of them, decision-making was no longer something he was capable of— but you took both of his hands in yours and led him to grab your tits. The softness in his hands, the heat around his cock— his balls tightened almost painfully, and he was a goner.

He’d never felt anything like it— that euphoric high with the first hot spurt, and then how it kept going. His vision went black as his cock pulsed in your heat, over and over, never-ending— his hips bucked uncontrollably, and you moaned above him while his balls emptied themselves deep inside you.

“Oh my god, so full,” you whined, and shut your eyes. You rocked back and forth slightly, unwilling to grind against him like you needed to, even though your cunt started fluttering around his cock as it throbbed.

Bucky’s chest heaved as he caught his breath, and it didn’t hurt as much as he expected— his brain could only process so many sensations at once, apparently.

You looked down at him, open mouthed and flushed, your own desperation clear in your eyes. “Am I hurting you?”

Bucky shook his head fiercely, and then winced, because that hurt.

“Can I stay here for a bit?” you whimpered. Your cheeks were hot and you took a deep breath to calm yourself, but your heart rate didn’t slow. “Wanna stay full.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he rasped. His brain was hazy, and your edges blurred slightly with the golden glow of the ceiling light behind you. His cock had softened a bit, and some of his cum was leaking out around it, making a mess of him. But you stayed perched on top of him, almost motionless except to squeeze Bucky’s hands against your flesh. He was drunk on it. Weak. Boneless.

“You look like a fuckin’ angel,” he slurred. “So fuckin’ perfect, look at you.” He still hadn’t caught his breath. “You’re amazing. Missed you so much. Fuck, never gonna leave you again.”

“Good,” you interrupted, but he wasn’t done.

“As soon as I’m better, I’m not lettin’ you outta bed for days,” he panted. “So much I need to do to ya. So much I gotta taste.”

Whichever part of his brain controlled discretion still hadn’t come back online, and he blubbered on, each sentence a bit more lewd and desperate than the last. “So fuckin’ good to me, look at you—”

He thumbed across your nipple, pinching slightly, and oh, you clenched down at that— and Bucky realized he was fully hard again.

He had to hold back a gasp when you shifted. He was almost painfully oversensitive, but could feel it again, feel the throb, the need— his breath caught when you fluttered around him.

“Again?” you smirked down at him.

“I’ve got like, three weeks to make up for—”

“Five days, Buck.” He tried to wiggle a little, to thrust up into you, but you glared at him and shook your head once. He was sore now, the ache in his muscles had returned, but he could ignore it, he’d ignored more for less—

“Just stay still, baby, okay? It’s my turn.” You lowered his hands until they rested on your thighs, then leaned back. Bucky gulped when one of your hands returned to your breast, kneading it, while the other snuck down to your clit. He could see everything, it was the best view, but he couldn’t decide where to look— your face or your tits, your soft belly or the point where he joined with you, messy from his release just minutes ago— his heart swelled in his chest.

Mine. All mine.

He tried to reach for your clit, but dropped his hand when you shot him a stern look. “No,” you ordered. “Stay still.”

His fingers dug into your thighs as he watched you, awestruck.

It was sleepier this time, slower. You weren’t fucking him, weren’t even grinding on him. It was just you, your fingers, and the full, complete feeling of his cock inside of you. Bucky hardly moved, just gave in and let the sensation of you working yourself to your high roll through him. He felt that heat pooling under his skin again, softer now than before, but building.

“S-shit, honey, you’re squeezing me.” He wanted nothing more than to thrust up into you, take control, make you feel as good as you made him. But every time he moved, no matter how inconsequential— lifting his hand, a twitch of his hips— you would peek one eye open to glare at him. Soon he was a panting, sweaty mess, completely at the mercy of your body and pleasure.

He felt every tremor, every hastened breath, deep in his bones. When you gasped, he did too. When your abdomen tensed, so did his.

“You feel so good, Sarge,” you whined. “I needed this so bad.” You rubbed quick circles as you tightened around him, squeezing in pulses, and he let out a guttural whine. His cock throbbed inside you, his balls were drawn up and tight—

“M’gonna come again, honey, holy shit—” He pressed his head back against the pillow in an attempt to stay still.

“Yeah? More for me?” Your eyebrows pulled together in pleasure, and the hot flush that had started on your cheeks spread down your neck and chest. Your mouth fell open and you quivered when the tension finally snapped, your cunt clenching around him in waves.

“O-oh— oh, what the fuck,” Bucky choked out. He dug his fingers into the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut as he released again, weaker this time, but that was fine— you milked every last drop from him.

You let out a breathless laugh as you came down, your goosebump-covered thighs still trembling at his sides. “You okay?” you asked softly.

Bucky’s heartbeat was still thudding in his ears, but he nodded, his sleepy grin plastered across his face. “More than okay.”

“I’m gonna get off.”

“You already did,” he said smugly, and you rolled your eyes before climbing off of him with a squelch.

You were both messy, but Bucky had the worst of it; gravity was working against him, and your combined mess had sopped down over his groin, soaking through the hairs there. He cringed at the idea of pulling his boxers back on.

“You should go get cleaned up,” you said, reading his mind as usual.

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna keep it a little longer.” He gave you a questioning look— you couldn’t have just said what he thought you said. But a cheeky smile spread across your face, and you leaned in close to him. “I missed being full of you,” you said.

He had to laugh at that, even as he shook his head, and that word zipped through his brain again. Lucky. Lucky lucky lucky. He climbed carefully to his feet and bent to kiss you before he returned to the shower.

You pulled your clothes on and listened to Bucky as he moved: you followed his bare footsteps down the hall, waited for the latch of the door and the hiss when he turned the shower on. You weren’t like Bucky; you had to focus, listen closely to single out the sounds and make sure he was okay— so when your phone rang at full volume on the nightstand, you jumped.

It was a number you didn’t recognize, not even the area code. You silenced the call on instinct, and almost set the phone down, but something made you pause. The last few days had been so strange. Maybe it was something important. Maybe it was about Bucky.

You accepted the call and held the phone to your ear. “…Hello?”

“Good morning.” An overly pleasant female voice greeted you by name, instantly making your skin crawl. “Do I have the correct number?”

“…Why?”

“This is Karen Page with the New York Bulletin.” She spoke quickly, continuing before you could react. “Would you consider yourself a good friend of Sergeant James Barnes?”

Your heart nearly thudded out of your chest, panic rising like bile in your throat. “Why?”

“I’ve been trying to reach him for a comment, but he hasn’t returned my calls.” The voice sounded tinny and far away, drowned out by the ringing in your ears. “I’m planning to do a feature on him after the news that unfolded overnight.”

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t force any words out in response. It didn’t matter; the voice on the phone kept going.

“I was doing some digging, and I found the photo you posted a few weeks ago— that’s Sergeant Barnes with you, correct?”

Fuck.

“I’ll, uh. I’m gonna call you right back.” Your hands shook as you ended the call, your eyes frantically searching the room until you spotted Bucky’s battered phone on the dresser.

You jumped up and grabbed it, but the screen didn’t turn on when you tried to wake it— it was dead, of course it was dead. You rushed over to plug it in, and when the phone turned on a few moments later you almost shut it right back off. It froze repeatedly, struggling while the messages came flowing in.

So many missed calls. So many missed texts. Some from numbers Bucky had saved, most from ones he didn’t— what the fuck was going on?

You left his phone struggling on the charger and pulled out your own, quickly opening up the web browser. When you started to type his name, the search bar immediately autofilled.

Your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled through the articles at lightning speed.

MISSION GONE WRONG: BARNES RESCUES CAPTAIN STEVE ROGERS

SERGEANT BARNES CREDITED WITH SUCCESSFUL AVENGERS OPERATION

JAMES BARNES: WAR CRIMINAL OR UNSUNG HERO?

While you had been rinsing the blood from Bucky’s hair last night, Steve had been talking to the press. He gave a statement, and he told the truth: he made an expensive mistake on their mission, and Bucky saved him. Bucky went above and beyond his duty as an Avenger, as a Sergeant, and even as Steve’s best friend, and he sustained major injuries. But he was safe at home now; he was on the mend.

You didn’t watch the full interview, but the excerpts were enough— every time Steve was asked about the mission, he brought the conversation back to Bucky. Over and over again, he reiterated the facts.

Bucky was good.

Bucky saved his life.

Bucky was a hero.

“...Babe?”

You had been too focused to hear Bucky get out of the shower; he stood in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking at your hunched shoulders hesitantly. You sniffed and wiped at your eyes before you turned to him.

“Steve talked to the press last night.” You were fighting hard to keep your voice even, but Bucky’s face immediately went white. He staggered back, and you jumped up. “No, Buck— it’s good. Baby, it’s good.” A quick, incredulous laugh escaped you before you wiped your eyes again, and he took a tentative step back toward you.

“Look.” You passed your phone to him and watched as he scrolled through page after page of headlines. All the bad articles from before, the ones he saw in the gym bathroom that made his head spin, were buried under the good. Bucky exhaled a shuddering breath, but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“One of them called me,” you said. “She tracked me down from that picture I posted. They want a comment from you.”

Bucky looked over at his own exploding phone, the screen flashing and shutting off so quickly it was almost comical. “Oh, shit.” He turned to you with wide eyes, and his voice was quiet, timid when he continued. “I don’t…” His hands were shaking. “I don’t want to talk to them.” His chin trembled, and you reached your own shaky hand up to stroke his jaw, to sweep your thumb over his dimple.

“No,” you said softly. “Of course not. You don’t owe them anything.”

He made the first move; despite his stitches, despite the bruises, he grabbed you and pulled you close against his body. You stood there together for a long moment, shell-shocked and stunned, gripping each other tightly as the weight of what was happening sunk in. Finally, you spoke against his bare shoulder.

“But I should call that reporter back.”

He pulled back to look at you, his brow furrowed. “What? Why?”

“If I don’t, she’ll just keep digging,” you said, almost apologetically. “And eventually she’ll find someone with a big mouth who doesn’t like you.” Bucky gulped, but he nodded. “Let’s just… take control of it head-on. Lean into it.” You were trying to amp yourself up; you said the words to convince yourself, to reassure yourself just as much as Bucky. You looked at him and exhaled. “What do you want me to say?”

The reporter sounded surprised to hear back from you. Bucky remained silent while you gave your statement on speakerphone.

You kept it short and shallow: you said that Bucky was a colleague, and that you were in communication with him while he recovered. You said he was feeling much better already, and he was grateful for everyone’s concern. You bit your tongue and didn’t mention how terribly the press had treated him in the past, or how disgusted you were by the two-faced nature of it all. No, you were cordial and polite, and both you and Bucky were relieved to find that this reporter, this Karen Page, was kinder than either of you expected.

She wanted to write a feature about Bucky’s history, about his pardon and trial. She seemed just as repulsed by his treatment as you were, and agreed that the coverage was unjust. She hadn’t been a journalist when all of that occurred; she swore she would’ve gotten the truth out then, if she had the option. She couldn’t help then, but she could now; she had the green light from her editor after last night’s press conference.

Bucky was staring detachedly into the middle distance, his eyes wide and his jaw clenched, so you thanked her and said you would pass along the information to him. You let out a shaky breath after you hung up, and you blinked tears out of your eyes before you tenderly wrapped your arms around Bucky’s waist again. With your face buried against his shoulder, you held him as tightly as you could without hurting him. He seemed to come back to you; his right hand stroked through your hair.

“They see you,” you whispered against his skin. “They see you.”

It took both of you a few minutes to blink away the tears and settle your racing thoughts.

“What do we do now?” Bucky finally asked with a resolved sigh.

“Whatever you want, honey.” Your voice was muffled.

“…Lunch?” he suggested quietly. A teary grin took over your face, and you nodded against his chest.

After you presented him with a full plate, you pulled out your phone and typed a quick text:

Thank you.

The reply came almost instantly:

❤️ -Steve

Read Insatiable 19.1 (bonus chapter) here

If you enjoyed this fic, please reblog so others can find it!

You deposited Bucky at the bathroom counter, and he propped most of his weight against the quartz while you started up the shower. The water came out cool at first, and you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Bucky while you waited for it to heat up. He was extremely still, like even the smallest movements caused him an immense amount of pain, but his eyes flickered between you and the floor. He fussed with his split lip, rolling it between his teeth, and a slight pink tinge spread across his cheeks.

“Baby, I—” he started, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, force the rest of the sentence out.

You shook water droplets from your hand. “Do you need help with the boxers?” you asked. “It’s almost ready.” You were almost cheerful— you couldn’t help it. Bucky was filthy and hurt but he was safe, he was back where he belonged—

But Bucky grimaced when he looked at the shower stall. “What is it?” you asked, your voice softening as worry crept back in. Maybe he wasn’t okay, maybe you should call Banner—

“I… don’t think I can shower right now,” he admitted slowly, redness and shame creeping across his cheeks. “I don’t think I can stand that long.” He mumbled the last part out, like it was a character flaw, like it was some inherent weakness he should be embarrassed about.

You knew you shouldn’t smile, but you were so relieved— you could fix that, you could handle that. “Oh,” you breathed, and Bucky finally met your eyes. Where he was expecting judgement and disdain there was only tenderness, and his posture softened considerably. You shut off the shower. “Right, right—”

“If you just get me a blanket I can lay down in here, sleep a bit? At least the tile’s easy to clean—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scoffed. “I’m not letting you sleep in here.” You grabbed the bottles of shampoo and body wash off the ledge in the shower and nodded toward the large soaking tub in the corner of the room. “Get in,” you ordered.

Bucky huffed, then winced again at the way his abdomen moved. “What, you’re not gonna run me a bath first?” he asked, one corner of his lips turning up as he limped forward. “What kind of service is this?”

You snorted before a smile took over your face— he must not be in too bad of shape if he could still manage that level of snark. With your hand on his vibranium elbow, more for emotional support than anything, Bucky took slow, hobbling steps toward the tub.

“You really want to stew in hot bloody dirt water?” you teased. “I guess I could arrange that—”

Bucky cracked a smile— literally, because the dried blood on his lip split open again. “Well, the hot water would ease some of the aches—”

“Just be glad I’m not hosing you down in the hangar, you heathen,” you muttered. Bucky had reached the edge of the tub, and you helped him shrug your hoodie off his shoulders before you met his eyes with that wicked glint.

“Don’t get any ideas,” you said sternly. You held his gaze as you slowly dropped to your knees in front of him, and Bucky’s tired eyes opened wide. His grin returned when you hooked your fingers into the elastic waistband and peeled those hideous white boxers down his legs.

Bucky carefully stepped out of them. “Who, me?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I would never.” But his hand still found your hair, and you snickered— oh yes, he would.

You climbed back to your feet, but he didn’t remove his hand— his eyes had gone dark, but you smirked and stepped away. “Bath. Now.”

“It’s not a bath if there’s no water in it,” he grumbled.

“You know you’re not supposed to soak cuts like that. You’re the one who told me not to take baths when I had stitches, if I recall—”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t. But I’m fine,” he said. “It won’t change anything. Look, they’re almost healed up.” He turned his chest to show you. You wouldn’t call him fine, but some of the shallower scrapes and cuts had already begun to knit back together. The deeper ones were still red, slightly oozy, but you figured it would be fine— if they were only going to take a week or so to heal anyway, one soak couldn’t hurt.

You sighed. “Let me rinse all the gunk off first. Then you can relax.”

Bucky smiled at you again, that same boyish lopsided grin, and fuck, you would’ve boiled water over the stove and filled the bath pan by pan if that meant getting him what he wanted.

He tenderly climbed into the tub— the porcelain walls were high, and it took some maneuvering to get his legs comfortably over the sides. He sat with his knees bent, but despite his size, he somehow still easily fit. You knelt down at the side of the tub and aimed the handheld sprayer at the drain while the water heated up. “Tilt your head back,” you told him when it was warm.

You started with his hair, dissolving and rinsing the matted blood away. Streams of pink snaked down his body and toward the drain, and you were thankful that Bucky had his eyes closed. But rinsing wasn’t enough— you added a dollop of shampoo to your hand and slowly worked it through his short hair, and your breath caught when the watery streaks turned red.

A rebirth against the white porcelain. You washed away the evidence of the horrors he had experienced, and slowly, slowly, your Bucky reappeared. The one who couldn’t bear to sit on the couch without being wrapped around you. The one who made such good coffee that you no longer even tried, and the one who pulled you into his arms and danced while dinner cooked. He came back to you, clearer and clearer with every smudge you wiped away, each piece of debris that went down the drain.

Bucky was starting to shiver, but he was still so filthy— you couldn’t fill the tub just yet. You cranked the water a bit hotter and grabbed the body wash, looking over his torso and arm at the deep bruises, the cuts and contusions. you hesitated. “Where can I touch you that won’t hurt?”

“You wanna touch me, huh?” He cocked his head to the side to meet your eyes. “Just can’t keep your hands off me, even when I’m filthy?” He was joking, but his words came through gritted teeth.

You forced your lips together to hide your smirk. “Wanna get you un-filthy so you can warm up,” you said, but you weren't able to hold back your snicker.

Bucky gave you a questioning look, but you shook your head instead of explaining. Now wasn’t the time to bring up the way he behaved downstairs. God, poor Dr. Banner was probably going to have nightmares.

You still couldn’t decide where to start with the soap— you cringed at the thought of touching his sore skin and causing him any kind of pain. You could touch his left arm, that wouldn’t hurt, but anything else—

“Here.” Bucky held his hand out, and you squeezed some soap into his palm. He washed himself tenderly, his fingers ghosting over all the threads and bumps while you followed behind with the sprayer, rinsing him until the water finally ran clear.

You plugged the drain and docked the sprayer, and Bucky let out a long breath and sank back against the tub wall as the steam and hot water engulfed him. “S’feels amazing,” he mumbled as his eyes fluttered shut.

You folded your arms on the tall edge of the tub and rested your cheek against them. You had no idea what time it was— it felt like days had passed, and you were the kind of exhausted that radiated from deep in you bones. But you couldn’t close your eyes, couldn’t tear them away from Bucky.

You memorized the angle of his nose, the dimple on his chin, the way his plush lips hung slightly open while he rested. Your eyes traced along his stubbled jaw, down his neck to his collarbones, to the contrasting pitted and raised scars that framed where skin met metal.

He was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. You knew it from the moment you met him, and seeing him like this, so vulnerable in front of you, only cemented the fact in your mind.

But as you stared at his clean face, only marred by bruises and scrapes now instead of filth, you realized your own skin felt tacky. You took a deep breath, because you didn’t want to move, but... “Are you good if I get up for a couple minutes?”

“What?” Bucky said sharply as his eyes flew open, his panic flaring before he quickly concealed it. Then, more steady: “Where are you going?”

“Not far. I just wanna shower, too.” His eyes followed yours to your arms, grimy from where his skin had touched you. “Think I’ve got some residual… who-knows-what on me.”

“Oh. Okay.” He relaxed again— he could see the shower from where he sat. You weren't leaving.

“Try not to wander too far,” you teased as you stood up. He rolled his eyes, but gave you a sleepy smile— it was a very funny joke, considering he probably couldn’t even get out of the tub without your help.

You felt his eyes on you as you stripped down, stepped into the frameless glass shower and sped through your routine. Every time you glanced over to the bath to check on him, Bucky was watching you, staring intently through the glass. You turned your head away from him, but you couldn’t help but smile.

When you were finished, you dried off with a fluffy white towel and bent over to wrap your hair in another. “You good, Sarge? Pruny yet?” But when you straightened up and turned to him, his face was bright red. Your brows creased and you hurried over to him. “Is the water too hot?”

Bucky shook his head slowly. “I don’t know whether to fall asleep or be, like, super turned on,” he mumbled.

You laughed as you kneeled down next to the tub again. “You can’t— are you serious? You have holes in your skin—”

“I know,” he groaned, somehow turning redder, and he looked at you with pleading eyes.

You glanced down into the water and sure enough, his cock was half hard and growing by the second. “Bucky,” you scolded.

“It’s been weeks—”

“It’s been, like, five days.”

“—and I just got the best private show of my life, and now you’re walking around like that—” He licked his lips, his roguish eyes watching you like you hung the stars in the sky— “I missed you.”

Slightly more controlled, slightly more dignified, but there he was— the casanova from the med wing had resurfaced. You snickered.

“I missed you too,” you said, and you stroked the back of your knuckles down his metal bicep.

Bucky leaned into your touch, but when his cock jumped in response, causing his abs to tense, he winced. “Fuck— can’t— it’ll hurt too much.”

“Shoulda stayed down there on the IV,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You were feeling good enough then—”

“What do you me—” His eyes widened in horror as the realization hit him. “Did I…?”

You moved away from him, casually dragging a finger along the surface of the water instead. “Make a fool of yourself? Yeah.” You fought back a smile, though your eyebrows arched. “Yeah, you did.”

Bucky’s head rolled back against the porcelain as he groaned. “What did I do? Wait, I don’t wanna know— no, yes I do— tell me.”

“Let’s see…” You held out your fingers to count. “I got to hear some antique pickup lines— very charming, by the way—” He pursed his lips. “You just about begged me to kiss you—”

“I did?” His hand rose to his swollen lip, and he flinched when his fingertip brushed the scab.

“Uh, yeah. And you moaned like a fucking porn star when I gave in. And no, we weren’t alone,” you said, getting ahead of his next question.

He dropped his chin to his chest and cursed.

“Poor Banner,” you continued. “You said some very dirty things in earshot of the doctor.” You leaned in to repeat those words against his ear, and you smirked at the way his jaw dropped and goosebumps erupted over his skin.

“No—”

“Yes. And oh, yeah, you tried to touch yourself in front him, too—”

Bucky groaned and shut his eyes again. “Shit.”

“It was a complete disaster,” you said, but you were grinning. “If that’s what drunk Bucky is like, I want more.”

You didn’t mention the confession part. Didn’t mention how he told you he loved you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t mention how bashful he got when he talked about picking something out, making it a surprise, because that was crazy talk, he didn’t know what he was saying—

You didn’t mention how you told him you loved him, too, and how you meant every word.

Bucky probably didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to be such a pervert in front of Dr. Banner— there was no way he would’ve said that stuff without the drugs, so he wouldn’t have said the other stuff, either.

But… maybe. Just because he didn’t mean to act on it didn’t mean the sentiment wasn’t there. Bucky had been sleazy and ridiculous in the hospital, yeah, but he was horny here at home, too. Just… dialed down a bit. He was living proof as he sat there in the water, struggling to ignore his aching cock.

Bucky was able to pull himself together and climb out of the tub when it was time, but he clenched his teeth when you dabbed a soft white towel against his torso. It came away with specks of red fading into the fibers, and you winced and grabbed a fresh towel.

You dropped to your knees again, this time to pat his legs dry. You were extremely thorough, because you didn’t want him to catch a chill, didn’t want to leave any inch of him uncared for— it wasn’t your fault that his dick twitched every time your face was near.

Bucky stared down at you with narrowed eyes, but there was a soft smile on his lips. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

But that wasn't what he really meant— you could hear it in the timbre of his voice, in the cadence and lilt when he looked at you. What he meant— what he was trying to say— was encoded in his own language, but you knew how to translate; it was your native tongue, after all. Even without the drugs, he loved you. He did.

Back in his room, you slipped into pajamas and helped Bucky into a loose t-shirt and sweats. You got him settled into bed, flat on his back, and lowered yourself gingerly onto the sheets beside him— careful not to touch, careful not to bounce the mattress too much. You breathed a sigh of relief, because finally, he was back where he belonged.

Though he kept his right arm straight at his side, his hand found yours in the sheets.

You were nearly asleep when there was a knock at the front door, and you blinked up toward Bucky’s tired eyes. He looked like he had been called back from the very edge of sleep, and you scowled. He needed to sleep, needed to rest, who the fuck was here so late— but maybe it was Banner with more meds. You took a deep breath and climbed to your feet.

But it wasn’t Banner. Of fucking course it wasn’t.

When you first opened the apartment door, you didn’t think anyone was there. For a moment you only saw the neutral walls of the elevator lobby, but then from further down the hallway, a frantic voice called you name.

Steve’s eyes latched onto you— your sleepy face, your pajamas, the fact that you were calm and not absolutely losing your shit worrying about Bucky, because that meant he was okay— and he let out a deep breath as he hurried back to the door.

“H-hey,” he stammered. “Is Buck here? I went back downstairs, but—” He held Bucky’s tactical suit in his arms, still grimy and disgusting but folded neatly.

“Yeah,” you yawned. “He’s in bed.” You glanced over your shoulder but couldn’t sense any movement inside the apartment. “In a lot of pain,” you said pointedly. You needed to get back to him—

Steve nodded once, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes for more than a second or two. “He, uh, left his stuff downstairs.”

You held out your arms expectantly, and Steve reluctantly passed the gear to you before carefully placing Bucky’s phone on the top of the pile. You cringed a bit at the stench, but now you had Bucky’s clothes, and Steve could go— but he didn’t move. He looked away from your eyes as soon as he could, like your gaze burned him, like he couldn’t stand it. But he didn’t leave.

The whites of his eyes were tinged pink, amplified by the dark, heavy bags beneath them. Worry wrinkled his forehead, and he held his hands clasped tightly in front of him to keep from wringing them.

You sighed, your deep breath diluting some of the venom you kept stored deep inside you. You couldn’t believe you were saying this, but— “…Do you want to come in?”

Steve’s tired eyes met yours and he nodded gratefully. You didn’t wait for him; you left the door open when you turned back into the apartment, and Steve scurried after you toward the washing machine. You nodded to Bucky’s bedroom door as you passed it. “He’s in there.” You didn’t look back at him, but you heard a click and knew Steve let himself in and closed the door behind him.

Pocketing Bucky’s phone, you dropped his clothes into the washing machine. You added entirely too much detergent and turned the water to cold, to get rid of the bloodstains first before you could run it again as hot as it would go. To sanitize. Sterilize. Wash away every trace of this mission and what it meant and what it led to. You slammed the lid of the machine shut.

Steve was in Bucky’s room, and your blankets were on Bucky’s bed. Your towel was on his hook, your dirty clothes were in his hamper, and your bra was on his floor.

It wasn’t exactly secretive. It wasn’t exactly subtle. To be fair, you hadn’t expected Steve to visit. You expected Bucky to come home, maybe take some time to shower before you cuddled up, told him how much you missed him, and then everything would go back to normal. You didn’t plan to rush to his bedside in the med wing, or to have to help him bathe because he was too weak. You didn’t prepare for this.

Bucky wouldn’t be happy about it, but at this point, you didn’t fucking care.

You hoped Steve laid down next to Bucky and rested his head on your pillow, the one that smelled like your shampoo. You hoped he smelled your body on the sheets, evidence of your nights and mornings spent together.

You hoped Steve knew.

With your knees pulled up to your chest, you sat on the couch and waited. You checked the time, but the glare from your phone in the dim room made you squint. It was well after three in the morning, and you were exhausted. You dropped your face to your knees— maybe you would just rest your eyes a bit.

The turn of the knob, the squeak of the hinges— you startled awake when the bedroom door opened. You glanced up to see Steve shuffling out, and he closed the door behind him before he met your eyes.

He took a deep breath. “He’s asleep,” he said.

Thank fuck. Steve was finally going to get out of here, and you’d go crawl under the blankets with Bucky, and everything would be okay. God, you were tired.

Steve stepped forward, but he didn’t aim toward the front door. Instead he stopped in front of the couch, in front of you, and after a heavy moment of silence he spoke. “Can we talk?”

You fought to keep your lip from curling into a sneer. Steve was pushing his luck, overstaying his welcome. You could only be nice for so long— you wanted to just tell him to get out, slam the door behind him. But there was something else, hidden behind your annoyance and anger— a pit had opened up in your stomach, and you shivered. You didn’t want him here, you wanted him gone—

But in front of you, Steve looked small. So small.

The worry in his eye, the tremble of his lip. He didn’t want to have this conversation any more than you did. But he needed to. He was asking.

You took a deep breath and nodded, scooting over to make room for him. Steve settled down as far from you as possible, pushed up against the opposite armrest, and stared down at his hands as he spoke.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. His deep voice was forcefully steady, like it would shake if he let the pressure up even the smallest amount.

Bucky was fine. You already knew that. This was about something else.

“What?” Your voice was sharp, as if maybe you could scare him away, make him stop talking—

Steve sighed and shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Buck and I grew up together.”

“Okay.” Did he really think you didn’t know that? But you glanced sideways at him, and Steve’s face was pained and as serious as you’d ever seen it. He continued.

“There was always…” Steve said, but his words caught in his throat before he could finish the thought. It took him a while to try again. “And then he got his orders, and I… fuck.” He gulped and dug his fingers into his thigh. You watched him silently, growing more perplexed with each failed sentence.

“We’ve always been…” Steve pressed back against the couch cushions, but not in a comfortable way; he was squirming, like he would rather crawl out of his own body than have this conversation.

Steve tried again. “Buck and I, we…”

Oh.

“I know,” you said, quietly and quickly, to put him out of his misery. Steve’s panicked eyes snapped up to yours. “He— he told me everything. About you two. I know. It’s okay.”

Steve’s skin had gone clammy, and he wavered between looking relieved and looking sick. You could see it in the hard line of his jaw, the way he couldn’t meet your eyes for more than a second— he was an animal caught in a trap. It was a trap of his own making, but he stepped into it on purpose, because he had to—

“You’ve never told anyone, have you?” you asked softly.

Almost imperceptibly, Steve shook his head. The pure distress on his face, the way he bounced his leg, unintentionally shaking the entire couch. Your eyes welled with tears and you blinked furiously, because you hated him— so why—?

“I mean, people know.” A brassy, nervous laugh escaped him. “It’s not a secret. But it’s not something…” He took a breath. “I’ve never been good at saying it. Just one of those things, you know?” You nodded, and when Steve met your eyes a half smile teased at his lips. He huffed out a breath.

“I should’ve known he told you.” He shook his head, but his lips were still turned up. “Of course he did.”

You frowned. “What does that mean?” But Steve just kept shaking his head, smiling infuriatingly.

After a moment Steve cleared his throat. “Y’know,” he said, “Buck used to bring a lot of girls home.”

You rounded on him, turning in your seat to face him with an open-mouthed snarl. Here you were, almost feeling bad for Steve— almost feeling compassionate— why did this asshole have to bring something like that up? Just to dig it in? To remind you that you weren't special?

But when you saw his eyes, they weren’t spiteful, or malicious, or anything you expected them to be. They were soft, and vulnerable, and… almost happy, in that bittersweet way. Steve took a deep breath.

“He never looked at any of them the way he looks at you.”

…Oh. Your entire posture softened and you nodded slowly. This time neither you nor Steve looked away, and it almost felt illicit, an invasion of privacy— because looking at Steve felt like you were reading Bucky’s diary. All of his history, his darkest secrets, the truths he kept hidden even from himself— they were written in the lines of Steve’s skin, the creases in his forehead.

Steve had gone pink, and it took a moment for him to recenter himself. “He was pretty delirious in the jet on the way here,” he said. “We didn’t have that medicine Bruce has, and the pain was bad enough that he kept slipping…”

He took a breath, and you leaned forward, hanging on to his every word. “He kept asking for you. And when he realized you weren’t there, he… he asked me to tell you something.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, but Steve just looked at you with a wry smile.

“He, uh, never did manage to get out what he was trying to say,” he said with a chuckle. “Sam was trying to stitch him up, and Buck started swinging— landed a punch right on his forehead—”

Your eyes snapped up to Steve’s in horror. “What?!”

Steve couldn’t hold your gaze, but his smile didn’t falter when he looked down at his lap. “He’s lucky Sam likes him. Anyone else would’ve dumped him somewhere in the Andes at that point.”

“Holy shit,” you muttered. God damn it, Bucky. You’d have to find a way to thank Sam somehow. What a freakin’ saint.

“He was too busy fighting Sam to tell me what he wanted to say,” Steve continued, “but it seemed really important to him. You should ask him, when you can.”

“…Yeah,” you conceded. “Okay.”

And for a moment, you relaxed into an uncertain silence together. You both let out your breaths, and the couch seemed to pull you in; if you were tired, then Steve must’ve been exhausted. But just when the quiet had become comfortable, just when you thought Steve might actually drift off, he started fidgeting.

His leg began to bounce again, and from the corner of your eye you could see him buttoning and unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve, forcefully enough that he nearly popped the button off altogether. You tried to meet his eyes, to give him a dirty look, get him to quit, but he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were trained straight up at the ceiling, and they… they were glistening. Your heart dropped again, and you sucked in a breath before it was too late— Steve blinked rapidly a few times, sniffed, and finally turned to meet your gaze.

“I love him.”

Maybe if you were lucky, the couch would open up and swallow you whole. You couldn’t stand to look at him, but you had to; you dug your nails into your own arms as his gaze pierced through you. Steve was telling the truth; the love he felt was etched into his face, alongside and intertwined with all of Bucky’s secrets. They were one and the same.

“And I know it’s never been the way he needs.” Steve’s voice broke, and he took a second to wipe at his cheek before starting again. “And I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” He exhaled a shaky breath.

“But he’s my home, and I— it’s killing me to see him like this,” Steve mumbled, more to himself than to you. “Especially because it’s my fault. He was so good— he always is, you know? And I was an idiot, and he could’ve...”

Yeah. Steve was an idiot, over and over again. You didn’t say anything, and the silence was too much for him to bear. He stood. “I’ve gotta get to bed,” he mumbled. “Take care of him, okay?”

You watched Steve’s heart shatter with each steady step across the apartment; he left pieces of it behind on the floorboards, raw and blown open. You swallowed hard. Part of you thought Steve deserved the pain, but this— he couldn’t leave, not like this— you jumped up after him.

Steve’s hand was on the doorknob when he turned back to you. “I know he’ll be okay,” he muttered, “but— can you text me? Just let me know if he’s—”

“Go be with him,” you interrupted softly. Steve looked at you blankly, his uncomprehending eyes searching your face. “Stay here tonight.”

Steve’s jaw hung open as he stared at you, and you backtracked. You looked at the floor and took a half step backwards, scratching at your neck.

“Uh, you know, if something goes wrong— if he falls, or if he can’t move— I won’t be able to help him, so…”

That wasn’t all, of course. Bucky would be thrilled to have Steve stay. But you didn’t need to say that.

Bucky needed Steve. And Steve, in whatever way, needed Bucky, too.

When Steve returned to Bucky’s bedroom and shut the door behind him, you collapsed back onto your place on the couch. You pulled your knees up and wrapped a blanket around yourself tightly before you flopped sideways, resting your cheek against a throw pillow.

You couldn’t quite stop the tears that leaked out, staining dark splotches onto the fabric.

It was time to let go.

This had all been one big misunderstanding; one big mistake. No wonder it felt too good to be true.

You hadn’t known what to expect when you signed on for this job, but the last thing you expected was this— this heartbreak. This feeling of knowing you weren’t good enough no matter how you tried, because some histories just can’t be erased. They can’t be written over, no matter how much you wished you could.

You hadn’t expected your surly new roommate to be so soft on the inside. You hadn’t expected to poke through the cracks in his armor so quickly— or to be there when the armor splintered on its own accord. You didn’t expect to feel this undeniable urge to pick up the pieces, even though you should’ve known; that had always been your nature. Bucky needed help, so you helped— and in the process, you realized how desperately you needed him, too.

You were so grateful for your time together, for all of those seemingly inconsequential moments that mattered so much. Those days spent sharing smiles and laughter, enjoying the freedom that came along with your captivity. The naps and nights spent tangled together, sheltering each other both from invisible monsters and reality.

Together you were wrapped inside this picture perfect world, with sandless beaches and shared meals, endless movie nights and comfort. But that wasn’t real life.

Real life had influences, and conflicts, and histories. You loved Bucky Barnes, more than you ever would’ve thought possible after only four months. But Steve had loved Bucky Barnes for decades.

You might have drifted off; you didn’t know. But after some time, even in your groggy state, you heard voices coming from Bucky’s room. Hushed, so quiet that you could barely hear, that you might have dreamt it altogether— but the doorknob turned, and Steve stepped out.

You frantically wiped the tears from your face and sat up. This was hard enough for all of you; you didn’t need to complicate things further by being sad. You didn’t need their pity.

Steve saw your tears anyway, of course he did— those damn super soldiers. “Hey,” he said gently. So gentle, like he knew you were about to break, had begun crumbling already. Handle with care.

That wavering uncertainty had returned to Steve’s face. “He’s, uh… he’s asking for you.”

You resented the way your heart fluttered as you climbed to your feet and briskly rubbed your hands across your face. Even though the tears had dried, Bucky would know— your red eyes, your flushed cheeks, the way you couldn’t stop your lip from trembling. You didn’t want him to see you like this; you had never felt so exhausted.

But you walked into the bedroom— his bedroom, your bedroom— and shut the door behind you. You stepped up to the nightstand. To Bucky. He was still where you left him, propped up on a pile of pillows, but his face was tighter now. Stuck in a grimace.

“Hi, Buck.” Fewer words, fewer chances for your voice to falter. You kept one arm crossed in front of you, but Bucky reached for you, and you let him grab your hand. Despite how he winced at the movement, he didn’t let go.

“You okay?” you asked, because even still, even now, you cared—

“As okay as I can be.”

You gave him a plastic smile. “I’m gonna go to bed, then, okay?” Never mind that your bed didn’t even have sheets on it, or pillows—

Bucky looked utterly bewildered, and his eyes traveled to the spot on his bed that you had claimed earlier.

“Steve’s here,” you said quietly. “He can help you.

Bucky glanced between you and the door, and you could see the thoughts connecting in his brain. “Stay,” he whispered, pleading.

You couldn’t say what you wanted to, because Steve was right there, he could hear everything— you raised your eyebrows, for emphasis, and held Bucky’s gaze.

“He’ll be here all night,” you said. “You don’t have to worry— and I’ll be right next door.”

“No. Please stay.” His eyes grew wider, panicked, and you couldn’t bear to look at him—

“Steve?” you called, and the door opened. You tried to back away, but Bucky wouldn’t let go of your hand.

“Baby, don’t—”

Steve rounded the corner, but paused when he glanced at your hands. “Oh— it’s okay,” he said hurriedly, and he took a step back. “I can come back in the morning—”

“No,” you said. “I was just going to bed—”

“It’s fine, really—”

“Come lay down, here—”

After a few more moments of bickering, Bucky let out a frustrated groan. “Would you two just— just shut up?”

You and Steve both looked at Bucky, finally stunned into silence. “Just shut the fuck up, both of you, okay? Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth to apologize, but Bucky kept talking. “I’m injured, right?” he said. You both nodded tentatively. “Certifiably almost on my deathbed.” Steve continued to nod, though you huffed and rolled your eyes.

Bucky glanced down, and his next words came quietly through clenched teeth. “So can you both please just get over here?”

You and Steve shared a wary look. Steve looked away first, but not before you saw how his ears had tinged pink—

“I’m telling you,” Bucky continued, a little more confident now. “I’ll feel a whole lot better if my two favorite people would just… just get over themselves already, and come get in bed with me.”

“Jesus, Buck—” Steve started as he turned away, his hands on his hips, but you were louder.

“Oh, you’re really gonna milk this, aren’t you?” you said, but your condescending tone didn’t match the way you were fighting to keep your smile off your face. Steve coughed to hide his snort.

“For as long as I can.” That stupid, lovely, lopsided grin— “Figure I’ve only got a couple days to make the most of it before I’m all healed up.”

Steve caught your eye, and his face mirrored your own amused look. You pushed the corners of your mouth down, because you did not want to give Bucky that satisfaction, but— what the hell.

You were the first to move. You crawled up between Bucky and the wall, and then Steve lowered himself down tenderly on Bucky’s other side. You were all perfectly still for a long while, flat on your backs, staring up at the same crack in the ceiling. Not daring to move, not even daring to cuddle— because of Bucky’s injuries, of course. But after some time, your breaths leveled out, and the three of you drifted into a quiet slumber. And for now, that was enough.

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You deposited Bucky at the bathroom counter, and he propped most of his weight against the quartz while you started up the shower. The water came out cool at first, and you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Bucky while you waited for it to heat up. He was extremely still, like even the smallest movements caused him an immense amount of pain, but his eyes flickered between you and the floor. He fussed with his split lip, rolling it between his teeth, and a slight pink tinge spread across his cheeks.

“Baby, I—” he started, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, force the rest of the sentence out.

You shook water droplets from your hand. “Do you need help with the boxers?” you asked. “It’s almost ready.” You were almost cheerful— you couldn’t help it. Bucky was filthy and hurt but he was safe, he was back where he belonged—

But Bucky grimaced when he looked at the shower stall. “What is it?” you asked, your voice softening as worry crept back in. Maybe he wasn’t okay, maybe you should call Banner—

“I… don’t think I can shower right now,” he admitted slowly, redness and shame creeping across his cheeks. “I don’t think I can stand that long.” He mumbled the last part out, like it was a character flaw, like it was some inherent weakness he should be embarrassed about.

You knew you shouldn’t smile, but you were so relieved— you could fix that, you could handle that. “Oh,” you breathed, and Bucky finally met your eyes. Where he was expecting judgement and disdain there was only tenderness, and his posture softened considerably. You shut off the shower. “Right, right—”

“If you just get me a blanket I can lay down in here, sleep a bit? At least the tile’s easy to clean—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scoffed. “I’m not letting you sleep in here.” You grabbed the bottles of shampoo and body wash off the ledge in the shower and nodded toward the large soaking tub in the corner of the room. “Get in,” you ordered.

Bucky huffed, then winced again at the way his abdomen moved. “What, you’re not gonna run me a bath first?” he asked, one corner of his lips turning up as he limped forward. “What kind of service is this?”

You snorted before a smile took over your face— he must not be in too bad of shape if he could still manage that level of snark. With your hand on his vibranium elbow, more for emotional support than anything, Bucky took slow, hobbling steps toward the tub.

“You really want to stew in hot bloody dirt water?” you teased. “I guess I could arrange that—”

Bucky cracked a smile— literally, because the dried blood on his lip split open again. “Well, the hot water would ease some of the aches—”

“Just be glad I’m not hosing you down in the hangar, you heathen,” you muttered. Bucky had reached the edge of the tub, and you helped him shrug your hoodie off his shoulders before you met his eyes with that wicked glint.

“Don’t get any ideas,” you said sternly. You held his gaze as you slowly dropped to your knees in front of him, and Bucky’s tired eyes opened wide. His grin returned when you hooked your fingers into the elastic waistband and peeled those hideous white boxers down his legs.

Bucky carefully stepped out of them. “Who, me?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I would never.” But his hand still found your hair, and you snickered— oh yes, he would.

You climbed back to your feet, but he didn’t remove his hand— his eyes had gone dark, but you smirked and stepped away. “Bath. Now.”

“It’s not a bath if there’s no water in it,” he grumbled.

“You know you’re not supposed to soak cuts like that. You’re the one who told me not to take baths when I had stitches, if I recall—”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t. But I’m fine,” he said. “It won’t change anything. Look, they’re almost healed up.” He turned his chest to show you. You wouldn’t call him fine, but some of the shallower scrapes and cuts had already begun to knit back together. The deeper ones were still red, slightly oozy, but you figured it would be fine— if they were only going to take a week or so to heal anyway, one soak couldn’t hurt.

You sighed. “Let me rinse all the gunk off first. Then you can relax.”

Bucky smiled at you again, that same boyish lopsided grin, and fuck, you would’ve boiled water over the stove and filled the bath pan by pan if that meant getting him what he wanted.

He tenderly climbed into the tub— the porcelain walls were high, and it took some maneuvering to get his legs comfortably over the sides. He sat with his knees bent, but despite his size, he somehow still easily fit. You knelt down at the side of the tub and aimed the handheld sprayer at the drain while the water heated up. “Tilt your head back,” you told him when it was warm.

You started with his hair, dissolving and rinsing the matted blood away. Streams of pink snaked down his body and toward the drain, and you were thankful that Bucky had his eyes closed. But rinsing wasn’t enough— you added a dollop of shampoo to your hand and slowly worked it through his short hair, and your breath caught when the watery streaks turned red.

A rebirth against the white porcelain. You washed away the evidence of the horrors he had experienced, and slowly, slowly, your Bucky reappeared. The one who couldn’t bear to sit on the couch without being wrapped around you. The one who made such good coffee that you no longer even tried, and the one who pulled you into his arms and danced while dinner cooked. He came back to you, clearer and clearer with every smudge you wiped away, each piece of debris that went down the drain.

Bucky was starting to shiver, but he was still so filthy— you couldn’t fill the tub just yet. You cranked the water a bit hotter and grabbed the body wash, looking over his torso and arm at the deep bruises, the cuts and contusions. you hesitated. “Where can I touch you that won’t hurt?”

“You wanna touch me, huh?” He cocked his head to the side to meet your eyes. “Just can’t keep your hands off me, even when I’m filthy?” He was joking, but his words came through gritted teeth.

You forced your lips together to hide your smirk. “Wanna get you un-filthy so you can warm up,” you said, but you weren't able to hold back your snicker.

Bucky gave you a questioning look, but you shook your head instead of explaining. Now wasn’t the time to bring up the way he behaved downstairs. God, poor Dr. Banner was probably going to have nightmares.

You still couldn’t decide where to start with the soap— you cringed at the thought of touching his sore skin and causing him any kind of pain. You could touch his left arm, that wouldn’t hurt, but anything else—

“Here.” Bucky held his hand out, and you squeezed some soap into his palm. He washed himself tenderly, his fingers ghosting over all the threads and bumps while you followed behind with the sprayer, rinsing him until the water finally ran clear.

You plugged the drain and docked the sprayer, and Bucky let out a long breath and sank back against the tub wall as the steam and hot water engulfed him. “S’feels amazing,” he mumbled as his eyes fluttered shut.

You folded your arms on the tall edge of the tub and rested your cheek against them. You had no idea what time it was— it felt like days had passed, and you were the kind of exhausted that radiated from deep in you bones. But you couldn’t close your eyes, couldn’t tear them away from Bucky.

You memorized the angle of his nose, the dimple on his chin, the way his plush lips hung slightly open while he rested. Your eyes traced along his stubbled jaw, down his neck to his collarbones, to the contrasting pitted and raised scars that framed where skin met metal.

He was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. You knew it from the moment you met him, and seeing him like this, so vulnerable in front of you, only cemented the fact in your mind.

But as you stared at his clean face, only marred by bruises and scrapes now instead of filth, you realized your own skin felt tacky. You took a deep breath, because you didn’t want to move, but... “Are you good if I get up for a couple minutes?”

“What?” Bucky said sharply as his eyes flew open, his panic flaring before he quickly concealed it. Then, more steady: “Where are you going?”

“Not far. I just wanna shower, too.” His eyes followed yours to your arms, grimy from where his skin had touched you. “Think I’ve got some residual… who-knows-what on me.”

“Oh. Okay.” He relaxed again— he could see the shower from where he sat. You weren't leaving.

“Try not to wander too far,” you teased as you stood up. He rolled his eyes, but gave you a sleepy smile— it was a very funny joke, considering he probably couldn’t even get out of the tub without your help.

You felt his eyes on you as you stripped down, stepped into the frameless glass shower and sped through your routine. Every time you glanced over to the bath to check on him, Bucky was watching you, staring intently through the glass. You turned your head away from him, but you couldn’t help but smile.

When you were finished, you dried off with a fluffy white towel and bent over to wrap your hair in another. “You good, Sarge? Pruny yet?” But when you straightened up and turned to him, his face was bright red. Your brows creased and you hurried over to him. “Is the water too hot?”

Bucky shook his head slowly. “I don’t know whether to fall asleep or be, like, super turned on,” he mumbled.

You laughed as you kneeled down next to the tub again. “You can’t— are you serious? You have holes in your skin—”

“I know,” he groaned, somehow turning redder, and he looked at you with pleading eyes.

You glanced down into the water and sure enough, his cock was half hard and growing by the second. “Bucky,” you scolded.

“It’s been weeks—”

“It’s been, like, five days.”

“—and I just got the best private show of my life, and now you’re walking around like that—” He licked his lips, his roguish eyes watching you like you hung the stars in the sky— “I missed you.”

Slightly more controlled, slightly more dignified, but there he was— the casanova from the med wing had resurfaced. You snickered.

“I missed you too,” you said, and you stroked the back of your knuckles down his metal bicep.

Bucky leaned into your touch, but when his cock jumped in response, causing his abs to tense, he winced. “Fuck— can’t— it’ll hurt too much.”

“Shoulda stayed down there on the IV,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You were feeling good enough then—”

“What do you me—” His eyes widened in horror as the realization hit him. “Did I…?”

You moved away from him, casually dragging a finger along the surface of the water instead. “Make a fool of yourself? Yeah.” You fought back a smile, though your eyebrows arched. “Yeah, you did.”

Bucky’s head rolled back against the porcelain as he groaned. “What did I do? Wait, I don’t wanna know— no, yes I do— tell me.”

“Let’s see…” You held out your fingers to count. “I got to hear some antique pickup lines— very charming, by the way—” He pursed his lips. “You just about begged me to kiss you—”

“I did?” His hand rose to his swollen lip, and he flinched when his fingertip brushed the scab.

“Uh, yeah. And you moaned like a fucking porn star when I gave in. And no, we weren’t alone,” you said, getting ahead of his next question.

He dropped his chin to his chest and cursed.

“Poor Banner,” you continued. “You said some very dirty things in earshot of the doctor.” You leaned in to repeat those words against his ear, and you smirked at the way his jaw dropped and goosebumps erupted over his skin.

“No—”

“Yes. And oh, yeah, you tried to touch yourself in front him, too—”

Bucky groaned and shut his eyes again. “Shit.”

“It was a complete disaster,” you said, but you were grinning. “If that’s what drunk Bucky is like, I want more.”

You didn’t mention the confession part. Didn’t mention how he told you he loved you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t mention how bashful he got when he talked about picking something out, making it a surprise, because that was crazy talk, he didn’t know what he was saying—

You didn’t mention how you told him you loved him, too, and how you meant every word.

Bucky probably didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to be such a pervert in front of Dr. Banner— there was no way he would’ve said that stuff without the drugs, so he wouldn’t have said the other stuff, either.

But… maybe. Just because he didn’t mean to act on it didn’t mean the sentiment wasn’t there. Bucky had been sleazy and ridiculous in the hospital, yeah, but he was horny here at home, too. Just… dialed down a bit. He was living proof as he sat there in the water, struggling to ignore his aching cock.

Bucky was able to pull himself together and climb out of the tub when it was time, but he clenched his teeth when you dabbed a soft white towel against his torso. It came away with specks of red fading into the fibers, and you winced and grabbed a fresh towel.

You dropped to your knees again, this time to pat his legs dry. You were extremely thorough, because you didn’t want him to catch a chill, didn’t want to leave any inch of him uncared for— it wasn’t your fault that his dick twitched every time your face was near.

Bucky stared down at you with narrowed eyes, but there was a soft smile on his lips. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

But that wasn't what he really meant— you could hear it in the timbre of his voice, in the cadence and lilt when he looked at you. What he meant— what he was trying to say— was encoded in his own language, but you knew how to translate; it was your native tongue, after all. Even without the drugs, he loved you. He did.

Back in his room, you slipped into pajamas and helped Bucky into a loose t-shirt and sweats. You got him settled into bed, flat on his back, and lowered yourself gingerly onto the sheets beside him— careful not to touch, careful not to bounce the mattress too much. You breathed a sigh of relief, because finally, he was back where he belonged.

Though he kept his right arm straight at his side, his hand found yours in the sheets.

You were nearly asleep when there was a knock at the front door, and you blinked up toward Bucky’s tired eyes. He looked like he had been called back from the very edge of sleep, and you scowled. He needed to sleep, needed to rest, who the fuck was here so late— but maybe it was Banner with more meds. You took a deep breath and climbed to your feet.

But it wasn’t Banner. Of fucking course it wasn’t.

When you first opened the apartment door, you didn’t think anyone was there. For a moment you only saw the neutral walls of the elevator lobby, but then from further down the hallway, a frantic voice called you name.

Steve’s eyes latched onto you— your sleepy face, your pajamas, the fact that you were calm and not absolutely losing your shit worrying about Bucky, because that meant he was okay— and he let out a deep breath as he hurried back to the door.

“H-hey,” he stammered. “Is Buck here? I went back downstairs, but—” He held Bucky’s tactical suit in his arms, still grimy and disgusting but folded neatly.

“Yeah,” you yawned. “He’s in bed.” You glanced over your shoulder but couldn’t sense any movement inside the apartment. “In a lot of pain,” you said pointedly. You needed to get back to him—

Steve nodded once, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes for more than a second or two. “He, uh, left his stuff downstairs.”

You held out your arms expectantly, and Steve reluctantly passed the gear to you before carefully placing Bucky’s phone on the top of the pile. You cringed a bit at the stench, but now you had Bucky’s clothes, and Steve could go— but he didn’t move. He looked away from your eyes as soon as he could, like your gaze burned him, like he couldn’t stand it. But he didn’t leave.

The whites of his eyes were tinged pink, amplified by the dark, heavy bags beneath them. Worry wrinkled his forehead, and he held his hands clasped tightly in front of him to keep from wringing them.

You sighed, your deep breath diluting some of the venom you kept stored deep inside you. You couldn’t believe you were saying this, but— “…Do you want to come in?”

Steve’s tired eyes met yours and he nodded gratefully. You didn’t wait for him; you left the door open when you turned back into the apartment, and Steve scurried after you toward the washing machine. You nodded to Bucky’s bedroom door as you passed it. “He’s in there.” You didn’t look back at him, but you heard a click and knew Steve let himself in and closed the door behind him.

Pocketing Bucky’s phone, you dropped his clothes into the washing machine. You added entirely too much detergent and turned the water to cold, to get rid of the bloodstains first before you could run it again as hot as it would go. To sanitize. Sterilize. Wash away every trace of this mission and what it meant and what it led to. You slammed the lid of the machine shut.

Steve was in Bucky’s room, and your blankets were on Bucky’s bed. Your towel was on his hook, your dirty clothes were in his hamper, and your bra was on his floor.

It wasn’t exactly secretive. It wasn’t exactly subtle. To be fair, you hadn’t expected Steve to visit. You expected Bucky to come home, maybe take some time to shower before you cuddled up, told him how much you missed him, and then everything would go back to normal. You didn’t plan to rush to his bedside in the med wing, or to have to help him bathe because he was too weak. You didn’t prepare for this.

Bucky wouldn’t be happy about it, but at this point, you didn’t fucking care.

You hoped Steve laid down next to Bucky and rested his head on your pillow, the one that smelled like your shampoo. You hoped he smelled your body on the sheets, evidence of your nights and mornings spent together.

You hoped Steve knew.

With your knees pulled up to your chest, you sat on the couch and waited. You checked the time, but the glare from your phone in the dim room made you squint. It was well after three in the morning, and you were exhausted. You dropped your face to your knees— maybe you would just rest your eyes a bit.

The turn of the knob, the squeak of the hinges— you startled awake when the bedroom door opened. You glanced up to see Steve shuffling out, and he closed the door behind him before he met your eyes.

He took a deep breath. “He’s asleep,” he said.

Thank fuck. Steve was finally going to get out of here, and you’d go crawl under the blankets with Bucky, and everything would be okay. God, you were tired.

Steve stepped forward, but he didn’t aim toward the front door. Instead he stopped in front of the couch, in front of you, and after a heavy moment of silence he spoke. “Can we talk?”

You fought to keep your lip from curling into a sneer. Steve was pushing his luck, overstaying his welcome. You could only be nice for so long— you wanted to just tell him to get out, slam the door behind him. But there was something else, hidden behind your annoyance and anger— a pit had opened up in your stomach, and you shivered. You didn’t want him here, you wanted him gone—

But in front of you, Steve looked small. So small.

The worry in his eye, the tremble of his lip. He didn’t want to have this conversation any more than you did. But he needed to. He was asking.

You took a deep breath and nodded, scooting over to make room for him. Steve settled down as far from you as possible, pushed up against the opposite armrest, and stared down at his hands as he spoke.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. His deep voice was forcefully steady, like it would shake if he let the pressure up even the smallest amount.

Bucky was fine. You already knew that. This was about something else.

“What?” Your voice was sharp, as if maybe you could scare him away, make him stop talking—

Steve sighed and shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Buck and I grew up together.”

“Okay.” Did he really think you didn’t know that? But you glanced sideways at him, and Steve’s face was pained and as serious as you’d ever seen it. He continued.

“There was always…” Steve said, but his words caught in his throat before he could finish the thought. It took him a while to try again. “And then he got his orders, and I… fuck.” He gulped and dug his fingers into his thigh. You watched him silently, growing more perplexed with each failed sentence.

“We’ve always been…” Steve pressed back against the couch cushions, but not in a comfortable way; he was squirming, like he would rather crawl out of his own body than have this conversation.

Steve tried again. “Buck and I, we…”

Oh.

“I know,” you said, quietly and quickly, to put him out of his misery. Steve’s panicked eyes snapped up to yours. “He— he told me everything. About you two. I know. It’s okay.”

Steve’s skin had gone clammy, and he wavered between looking relieved and looking sick. You could see it in the hard line of his jaw, the way he couldn’t meet your eyes for more than a second— he was an animal caught in a trap. It was a trap of his own making, but he stepped into it on purpose, because he had to—

“You’ve never told anyone, have you?” you asked softly.

Almost imperceptibly, Steve shook his head. The pure distress on his face, the way he bounced his leg, unintentionally shaking the entire couch. Your eyes welled with tears and you blinked furiously, because you hated him— so why—?

“I mean, people know.” A brassy, nervous laugh escaped him. “It’s not a secret. But it’s not something…” He took a breath. “I’ve never been good at saying it. Just one of those things, you know?” You nodded, and when Steve met your eyes a half smile teased at his lips. He huffed out a breath.

“I should’ve known he told you.” He shook his head, but his lips were still turned up. “Of course he did.”

You frowned. “What does that mean?” But Steve just kept shaking his head, smiling infuriatingly.

After a moment Steve cleared his throat. “Y’know,” he said, “Buck used to bring a lot of girls home.”

You rounded on him, turning in your seat to face him with an open-mouthed snarl. Here you were, almost feeling bad for Steve— almost feeling compassionate— why did this asshole have to bring something like that up? Just to dig it in? To remind you that you weren't special?

But when you saw his eyes, they weren’t spiteful, or malicious, or anything you expected them to be. They were soft, and vulnerable, and… almost happy, in that bittersweet way. Steve took a deep breath.

“He never looked at any of them the way he looks at you.”

…Oh. Your entire posture softened and you nodded slowly. This time neither you nor Steve looked away, and it almost felt illicit, an invasion of privacy— because looking at Steve felt like you were reading Bucky’s diary. All of his history, his darkest secrets, the truths he kept hidden even from himself— they were written in the lines of Steve’s skin, the creases in his forehead.

Steve had gone pink, and it took a moment for him to recenter himself. “He was pretty delirious in the jet on the way here,” he said. “We didn’t have that medicine Bruce has, and the pain was bad enough that he kept slipping…”

He took a breath, and you leaned forward, hanging on to his every word. “He kept asking for you. And when he realized you weren’t there, he… he asked me to tell you something.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, but Steve just looked at you with a wry smile.

“He, uh, never did manage to get out what he was trying to say,” he said with a chuckle. “Sam was trying to stitch him up, and Buck started swinging— landed a punch right on his forehead—”

Your eyes snapped up to Steve’s in horror. “What?!”

Steve couldn’t hold your gaze, but his smile didn’t falter when he looked down at his lap. “He’s lucky Sam likes him. Anyone else would’ve dumped him somewhere in the Andes at that point.”

“Holy shit,” you muttered. God damn it, Bucky. You’d have to find a way to thank Sam somehow. What a freakin’ saint.

“He was too busy fighting Sam to tell me what he wanted to say,” Steve continued, “but it seemed really important to him. You should ask him, when you can.”

“…Yeah,” you conceded. “Okay.”

And for a moment, you relaxed into an uncertain silence together. You both let out your breaths, and the couch seemed to pull you in; if you were tired, then Steve must’ve been exhausted. But just when the quiet had become comfortable, just when you thought Steve might actually drift off, he started fidgeting.

His leg began to bounce again, and from the corner of your eye you could see him buttoning and unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve, forcefully enough that he nearly popped the button off altogether. You tried to meet his eyes, to give him a dirty look, get him to quit, but he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were trained straight up at the ceiling, and they… they were glistening. Your heart dropped again, and you sucked in a breath before it was too late— Steve blinked rapidly a few times, sniffed, and finally turned to meet your gaze.

“I love him.”

Maybe if you were lucky, the couch would open up and swallow you whole. You couldn’t stand to look at him, but you had to; you dug your nails into your own arms as his gaze pierced through you. Steve was telling the truth; the love he felt was etched into his face, alongside and intertwined with all of Bucky’s secrets. They were one and the same.

“And I know it’s never been the way he needs.” Steve’s voice broke, and he took a second to wipe at his cheek before starting again. “And I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” He exhaled a shaky breath.

“But he’s my home, and I— it’s killing me to see him like this,” Steve mumbled, more to himself than to you. “Especially because it’s my fault. He was so good— he always is, you know? And I was an idiot, and he could’ve...”

Yeah. Steve was an idiot, over and over again. You didn’t say anything, and the silence was too much for him to bear. He stood. “I’ve gotta get to bed,” he mumbled. “Take care of him, okay?”

You watched Steve’s heart shatter with each steady step across the apartment; he left pieces of it behind on the floorboards, raw and blown open. You swallowed hard. Part of you thought Steve deserved the pain, but this— he couldn’t leave, not like this— you jumped up after him.

Steve’s hand was on the doorknob when he turned back to you. “I know he’ll be okay,” he muttered, “but— can you text me? Just let me know if he’s—”

“Go be with him,” you interrupted softly. Steve looked at you blankly, his uncomprehending eyes searching your face. “Stay here tonight.”

Steve’s jaw hung open as he stared at you, and you backtracked. You looked at the floor and took a half step backwards, scratching at your neck.

“Uh, you know, if something goes wrong— if he falls, or if he can’t move— I won’t be able to help him, so…”

That wasn’t all, of course. Bucky would be thrilled to have Steve stay. But you didn’t need to say that.

Bucky needed Steve. And Steve, in whatever way, needed Bucky, too.

When Steve returned to Bucky’s bedroom and shut the door behind him, you collapsed back onto your place on the couch. You pulled your knees up and wrapped a blanket around yourself tightly before you flopped sideways, resting your cheek against a throw pillow.

You couldn’t quite stop the tears that leaked out, staining dark splotches onto the fabric.

It was time to let go.

This had all been one big misunderstanding; one big mistake. No wonder it felt too good to be true.

You hadn’t known what to expect when you signed on for this job, but the last thing you expected was this— this heartbreak. This feeling of knowing you weren’t good enough no matter how you tried, because some histories just can’t be erased. They can’t be written over, no matter how much you wished you could.

You hadn’t expected your surly new roommate to be so soft on the inside. You hadn’t expected to poke through the cracks in his armor so quickly— or to be there when the armor splintered on its own accord. You didn’t expect to feel this undeniable urge to pick up the pieces, even though you should’ve known; that had always been your nature. Bucky needed help, so you helped— and in the process, you realized how desperately you needed him, too.

You were so grateful for your time together, for all of those seemingly inconsequential moments that mattered so much. Those days spent sharing smiles and laughter, enjoying the freedom that came along with your captivity. The naps and nights spent tangled together, sheltering each other both from invisible monsters and reality.

Together you were wrapped inside this picture perfect world, with sandless beaches and shared meals, endless movie nights and comfort. But that wasn’t real life.

Real life had influences, and conflicts, and histories. You loved Bucky Barnes, more than you ever would’ve thought possible after only four months. But Steve had loved Bucky Barnes for decades.

You might have drifted off; you didn’t know. But after some time, even in your groggy state, you heard voices coming from Bucky’s room. Hushed, so quiet that you could barely hear, that you might have dreamt it altogether— but the doorknob turned, and Steve stepped out.

You frantically wiped the tears from your face and sat up. This was hard enough for all of you; you didn’t need to complicate things further by being sad. You didn’t need their pity.

Steve saw your tears anyway, of course he did— those damn super soldiers. “Hey,” he said gently. So gentle, like he knew you were about to break, had begun crumbling already. Handle with care.

That wavering uncertainty had returned to Steve’s face. “He’s, uh… he’s asking for you.”

You resented the way your heart fluttered as you climbed to your feet and briskly rubbed your hands across your face. Even though the tears had dried, Bucky would know— your red eyes, your flushed cheeks, the way you couldn’t stop your lip from trembling. You didn’t want him to see you like this; you had never felt so exhausted.

But you walked into the bedroom— his bedroom, your bedroom— and shut the door behind you. You stepped up to the nightstand. To Bucky. He was still where you left him, propped up on a pile of pillows, but his face was tighter now. Stuck in a grimace.

“Hi, Buck.” Fewer words, fewer chances for your voice to falter. You kept one arm crossed in front of you, but Bucky reached for you, and you let him grab your hand. Despite how he winced at the movement, he didn’t let go.

“You okay?” you asked, because even still, even now, you cared—

“As okay as I can be.”

You gave him a plastic smile. “I’m gonna go to bed, then, okay?” Never mind that your bed didn’t even have sheets on it, or pillows—

Bucky looked utterly bewildered, and his eyes traveled to the spot on his bed that you had claimed earlier.

“Steve’s here,” you said quietly. “He can help you.

Bucky glanced between you and the door, and you could see the thoughts connecting in his brain. “Stay,” he whispered, pleading.

You couldn’t say what you wanted to, because Steve was right there, he could hear everything— you raised your eyebrows, for emphasis, and held Bucky’s gaze.

“He’ll be here all night,” you said. “You don’t have to worry— and I’ll be right next door.”

“No. Please stay.” His eyes grew wider, panicked, and you couldn’t bear to look at him—

“Steve?” you called, and the door opened. You tried to back away, but Bucky wouldn’t let go of your hand.

“Baby, don’t—”

Steve rounded the corner, but paused when he glanced at your hands. “Oh— it’s okay,” he said hurriedly, and he took a step back. “I can come back in the morning—”

“No,” you said. “I was just going to bed—”

“It’s fine, really—”

“Come lay down, here—”

After a few more moments of bickering, Bucky let out a frustrated groan. “Would you two just— just shut up?”

You and Steve both looked at Bucky, finally stunned into silence. “Just shut the fuck up, both of you, okay? Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth to apologize, but Bucky kept talking. “I’m injured, right?” he said. You both nodded tentatively. “Certifiably almost on my deathbed.” Steve continued to nod, though you huffed and rolled your eyes.

Bucky glanced down, and his next words came quietly through clenched teeth. “So can you both please just get over here?”

You and Steve shared a wary look. Steve looked away first, but not before you saw how his ears had tinged pink—

“I’m telling you,” Bucky continued, a little more confident now. “I’ll feel a whole lot better if my two favorite people would just… just get over themselves already, and come get in bed with me.”

“Jesus, Buck—” Steve started as he turned away, his hands on his hips, but you were louder.

“Oh, you’re really gonna milk this, aren’t you?” you said, but your condescending tone didn’t match the way you were fighting to keep your smile off your face. Steve coughed to hide his snort.

“For as long as I can.” That stupid, lovely, lopsided grin— “Figure I’ve only got a couple days to make the most of it before I’m all healed up.”

Steve caught your eye, and his face mirrored your own amused look. You pushed the corners of your mouth down, because you did not want to give Bucky that satisfaction, but— what the hell.

You were the first to move. You crawled up between Bucky and the wall, and then Steve lowered himself down tenderly on Bucky’s other side. You were all perfectly still for a long while, flat on your backs, staring up at the same crack in the ceiling. Not daring to move, not even daring to cuddle— because of Bucky’s injuries, of course. But after some time, your breaths leveled out, and the three of you drifted into a quiet slumber. And for now, that was enough.

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