#back rubs

You had asked, on your commute to work that morning, if you could swing by that evening after work to have dinner. Just something warm, something you didn’t have to think about. 

Of course he said yes. You already had the spare key on your keyring.

Your chest ached by the time you stepped into his place - the sparsely furnished but trying to look more normal apartment - with the winter chill seeping through the layers of clothes you wore. But the heater was on, one you knew he only raised the temperature on before you came over, and it allowed the blood to flow back to your fingers and your toes and your cheeks.

“Long day?” Bucky slides out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

You’re slipping off your shoes and hanging your coat when you look up at him. “Something like that.”

He knows something is wrong just by the way you drop your keys, the way you shrug your work bag off. “Dinner is in the oven, should be ready in less than an hour.”

“What did you make?”

“Baked ziti. You’ll have leftovers for work tomorrow.”

You nearly sigh into him as he finds you, pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “God, I love you.”

“I know.” His voice is low, but you feel him smile when he kisses you again. “Go lay on the couch. I’ll help you feel better.”

You hesitate, just for a moment, “Ugh, James, I just had the longest day at work and I spilled half my coffee before even stepping into the office and-”

“Just trust me, sweetheart,” He guides you with a hand on your lower back, gently forcing you towards the living room. You concede, flopping onto the couch, your head leaned back on the backrest, groaning like it's physically painful, even though it's exactly what you need.

"Work that bad?"

"I don't even want to think about it."

He breathes out something close to a laugh, "Lie down, baby. On your stomach."

"I don't trust you," But of course you do, and you do it anyway. You grab a pillow to hold, press your face into it, let your legs stretch out onto the length of the cushions.

He finds a small spot to sit next to you, and you feel the brush of your shirt untucking from your pants, exposing the soft skin of your back.

The first press of his palm between your shoulder blades, the heel of it warm, feels like a spell. He settles his metal hand on your hip, still, grounding.

He starts just at the base of your neck, strong fingers kneading in slow circles, thumbs sliding down either side of your spine. His movements are deliberate, confident, not rough but firm. He knows exactly where you carry your tension, your weight.

"Just breathe for me, sweet thing." And when he reaches your lower back and presses just right, you let out this soft sound, something close to a whine, a moan.

"There you are," He whispers, leaning in close as his hands work towards your tailbone, the tightness held in your hips, "Knew you were in there somewhere."

"Don't say things like that like," You murmur, but your face is pressed into that pillow and your eyes are closed, and you can't really focus on your words with his hands still on you. "You'll ruin me."

"Good," He finds the lick of skin at the base of your neck, presses his lips to it, breath warm against you, "About time someone did."

He doesn't stop until you're liquid beneath him. Your shift is wrinkled halfway up your spine, cheek pressed to the pillow that smells like him, lips parted. You can smell the warmth of his cooking in the oven, his leftover cologne from when he sprayed it on that morning.

"You keep doing that and I'll fall asleep before dinner."

"You sleep, you don't eat," His hands round the curve of your hips, and you have to close you mouth not to make a sound, "And I made garlic bread."

He didn’t miss the quiet wince as you slipped your shoes off, the sluggish shuffle of your feet, or the ghost of pain in your eyes that you tried to hide behind a tired smile.

“Rough day?” he asked gently.

“Yeah... but I’m fine,” you replied, offering him the softest of smiles and a brief kiss to his cheek before disappearing down the hall.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. You were still standing. That counted for something, didn’t it?

In the bathroom, you made the water as hot as you could bear. Steam rose in lazy tendrils as you sprinkled in Epsom salts and a few drops of your favorite lavender oil. The floral scent bloomed around you, clinging to the tile and seeping into your skin. You lowered yourself slowly into the deep tub, every inch of immersion a dull ache, followed by the quietest relief.

This tub had been the deciding factor when you and Bucky chose this apartment. You remembered laughing about how luxurious it felt at the time: “for a couple of homebodies who barely go out, we might as well live like royalty”. Now, it felt less like luxury and more like survival.

But even as the water surrounded you like a cocoon, the ache in your body refused to fully release. It clung to you, stubborn and unrelenting.

Then you heard a soft knock on the doorframe.

“I come bearing gifts,” Bucky announced with a grin, stepping into the doorway like a knight with a tray instead of a sword.

You blinked. “What’s all that?”

“Girl dinner,” he said proudly, showing off his perfectly curated haul. A long, bathtub tray rested across his arms filled with goodies: creamy brie, rosemary sea salt crackers stacked with care, and a generous pour of your favorite wine in a delicate glass.

The laugh that bubbled from your chest was small, but real. “Where did you even learn that term?”

“Internet,” he said smugly, setting the tray across the tub with exaggerated precision. “I keep up with trends, thank you very much.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered affectionately, shaking your head.

“Ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrected, leaning in to kiss the top of your head, the gesture grounding you more than the bathwater ever could.

You let yourself sink into the warmth of the water, the quiet clink of the wine glass, and the way the soft cheese spread so easily over the crisp cracker. You hadn’t realized how much your soul had needed this kind of care.

He didn’t say much as you sipped and nibbled, but he sat nearby, watching you with a look in his eyes like he was memorizing you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning over to kiss the corner of his mouth. It may have been a small gesture, but it was packed with all the words you didn’t have energy for.

When you finally emerged from the bath, wrapped in your robe with damp hair clinging to your neck, you were warmer and softer, but not better.

The ache had simply moved and your muscles still protested every movement. You didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.

Bucky’s eyes tracked your every movement: the too-careful stretch, the half-stifled wince, and the way you paused before sitting, trying to gauge which position would hurt the least.

“Alright,” he said gently, stepping forward to intercept your path to the couch. “No more pretending.”

You opened your mouth to protest. “Bucky, I’m—”

“You’re hurting,” he said, voice quiet but firm, his hand brushing down your arm with deliberate care. “Let me help. Please.”

There was no fight left in you, only surrender.

You nodded once, and let him guide you to the bedroom.

The sheets were cool as you lay on your stomach, face turned sideways into the pillow, and your breathing was shallow.

He started at your shoulders, both vibranium and flesh working in tandem. One hand was warm, melting your tension. The other was cool and grounding, easing away pain like pressure points of ice and fire. It was like having icy-hot pads on demand, but far more precise and loving.

He worked intentionally slowly. His thumbs kneaded into knots you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying for days. He moved like your body was a map he already knew but wanted to rediscover every inch of.

There were no distractions, only the press and slide of his palms and the occasional quiet sigh he coaxed from you as another knot surrendered beneath his care.

You drifted in and out, conscious enough to feel, but too exhausted to stay aware. Somewhere between your lower back and your thighs, your mind stopped forming complete thoughts. All you could focus on was the sensation and safety.

By the time he reached your calves, your breath had evened out, heavy and drowsy.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, soft and reverent.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

And for the first time all day, you let go.