#vulnerable!bucky

The motel room was barely bigger than a closet, the overhead light casting a sickly yellow glow over the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling. The rain outside hadn't let up for hours, drumming against the windows in a steady rhythm that only made the silence between you louder.

You stood near the bed - the one bed - with your arms crossed, soaked to the bone, a fresh ache blooming beneath your shoulder where the bullet had grazed you hours earlier. The adrenaline was long gone, leaving behind a tight, dull throb.

Bucky was near the door, jaw clenched, arms folded across his chest. His soaked Henley clung to him, emphasizing every ridge of muscle, every breath he was trying to control. His hair hung in damp strands over his forehead, and water still clung to his eyelashes.

"I'll take the floor," he said, voice low and rough.

You gave a dry laugh. "Face it, Barnes. We've both been in the military. It won't kill us to share a bed for the night."

He didn't answer right away, his jaw working. Then, with a reluctant nod, he muttered, "You stay on your side."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, wouldn't want to cross any lines."

The words hung heavy between you, more about everything you hadn't said than the mattress itself.

You toed off your boots and reached for the towel he'd tossed you earlier. The moment you lifted your arm, pain shot through your shoulder, sharp enough to make you hiss and go still.

"You're hurt," Bucky said instantly, stepping forward before you could wave him off.

"It's just a scratch."

He didn't buy it for a second.

"Let me see."

You hesitated.

"If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you could've just asked," you said, trying to make light of it.

That earned a low chuckle from him - barely there, but real. "Yeah, sweetheart, patching you up in a rundown motel is exactly how I imagined tonight going."

You sat down in the only chair in the room, wincing as you peeled your shirt off. He crouched in front of you with the first aid kit, his expression shifting into something softer, something focused. As soon as he saw the wound, the tension returned to his jaw.

"This is gonna sting."

He pressed the antiseptic gently to your skin. You sucked in a sharp breath, your hand flying out to steady yourself - and landing on his thigh.

Neither of you moved.

His vibranium hand settled lightly on your knee, his thumb brushing once, slow and uncertain.

"I got you," he murmured.

You didn't say anything. You couldn't. The air was suddenly too thick to breathe.

When he finished dressing your wound, he looked up - closer than he'd been all night. Close enough to count the golden flecks in his eyes, to feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"Maybe we should both lie down," you said quietly, watching the way he hesitated.

He didn't speak as he stood and walked to the bed. He peeled off his shirt - slowly, as if expecting you to stop him. You didn't.

When he sat, you crawled in beside him, neither of you touching. Not yet.

"This is dangerous," he whispered into the silence.

"Hey. It's alright." You turned toward him propped on one elbow. "It's just us. Nothing's going to happen."

You caught the flicker of something behind his eyes. Guilt. Fear. Regret.

Then it clicked.

"You have nightmares," you said softly. "About being him."

Bucky's throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Yeah," he said eventually. "Sometimes I wake up and I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am."

You reached out, gently. "You trust me, right?"

He looked at you - really looked at you. "I do."

"Then trust me now."

His breath hitched. "It's not that simple."

"Then I'll take care of myself," you said. "Like I always have. How often do we train together and I land you on your ass?"

That earned the ghost of a smile. "More than I'd like to admit."

You grinned. "Exactly. So if you think I can't handle myself, you're wrong."

Bucky's voice was quiet, hoarse. "You should be afraid of me."

"I'm not," you said simply.

For a moment, he was silent. Then -

"You're dangerous, you know that?" he murmured.

You smirked. "Then why aren't you running?"

He rolled onto his side, his hand reaching for yours. "Because I don't want to."

You could feel it - pulsing between your ribs, settling low in your stomach. This pull. This want.

"Do you want a distraction from them?" you asked softly.

His breath faltered. "A distraction?"

You nodded, swallowing the nerves tightening your chest. "No strings attached. Just for us. Just for tonight."

His voice was like gravel. "You sure?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't."

Bucky didn't move for a long time. Then, slowly, his hands slid up your sides, careful to avoid your shoulder. He pulled you into his lap, his eyes searching yours like he was still waiting for the moment you'd change your mind.

"I need you, James," you whispered.

His name broke him.

He surged forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that shattered the barrier between you. It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, starved, months of tension combusting into heat.

You fumbled for his belt as he kissed you deeper, his hands mapping the lines of your body like he couldn't get enough. Every brush of his fingers, every desperate sound that passed between you - it built into something molten.

He murmured your name like it was sacred.

And when the final barrier between you fell away, there was no more hesitation, no fear. Just hands and mouths and breathless gasps as you moved in sync, as though your bodies had known each other in another life.

He held you close - anchored you. Worshipped every inch of you like you were something holy. And when the end came, it wasn't violent or frantic - it was overwhelming and reverent, like coming home.

Afterward, he didn't move. His arms were still wrapped around you, his breath steady but not quiet.

"I'm not going to pretend this didn't happen," he said softly.

You pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart. "Good. Because neither will I."

Outside, the storm began to ease.