[ It's not quite six - he'd know if it were, the alarm'd be screaming and rattling its bells off. He had one of the new ones for a while, this thing that'd play music in the morning, but he ended up either sleeping through it or disliking the song from hearing it so much. In a weird way, the awful bells are a little more normal.
Steve's not sure what woke him up- a quick glance at the windows, the door, everything is confirmed secure, Bucky is asleep next to him. Steve inhales once, pressing his nose into the soft hair at the nape of Bucky's neck, and closes his eyes again after confirming the time.
They have twenty-three minutes until the alarm goes off. He could shift over, disable it - it's Saturday, it's not a problem, but that'd wake Bucky and he doesn't want to risk it. Hell, Steve's aware he's probably already a little awake, but there's no sense disturbing him right now. Not when it's a gorgeous morning, the room warmed from sunlight, flickers of it licking its way under the shades and across the floor. Bucky's stretched out next to him, breathing and solid and Steve shifts a hand over him, presses it to his hip like he does sometimes just to remind himself he's really there. He's okay. He's in one piece, they're in bed, it's okay. Steve's always over-cautious about touching him, especially when they sleep like this, close and tight and together, one of them ending where the other begins. They both have bad mornings where things aren't clear - where a hand on a part of them makes them startle, or being pressed too close is too much. He's ever watchful for that - listens to Bucky's breathing, pays attention, makes sure he's not too tense.
Twenty two minutes. He really hates alarms sometimes. A shift of his hips and the press of his sleeping shorts against his half hard dick reminds him that he hates waking up with this, too, because it's more of an inconvenience most mornings than anything else. Twenty two minutes, then he'll deal with everything. Stark's absurd coffee maker is somehow wired to know when they're up and about and it'll brew coffee for them by the time they're up, and save for making breakfast, there's nothing to get to. Nothing but enjoying this, basking like some kind of big cat in a million covers.
The hand on Bucky's hip spreads wide, cups it gently, and he exhales, counting seconds in the back of his mind. ]
Steve's not sure what woke him up- a quick glance at the windows, the door, everything is confirmed secure, Bucky is asleep next to him. Steve inhales once, pressing his nose into the soft hair at the nape of Bucky's neck, and closes his eyes again after confirming the time.
They have twenty-three minutes until the alarm goes off. He could shift over, disable it - it's Saturday, it's not a problem, but that'd wake Bucky and he doesn't want to risk it. Hell, Steve's aware he's probably already a little awake, but there's no sense disturbing him right now. Not when it's a gorgeous morning, the room warmed from sunlight, flickers of it licking its way under the shades and across the floor. Bucky's stretched out next to him, breathing and solid and Steve shifts a hand over him, presses it to his hip like he does sometimes just to remind himself he's really there. He's okay. He's in one piece, they're in bed, it's okay. Steve's always over-cautious about touching him, especially when they sleep like this, close and tight and together, one of them ending where the other begins. They both have bad mornings where things aren't clear - where a hand on a part of them makes them startle, or being pressed too close is too much. He's ever watchful for that - listens to Bucky's breathing, pays attention, makes sure he's not too tense.
Twenty two minutes. He really hates alarms sometimes. A shift of his hips and the press of his sleeping shorts against his half hard dick reminds him that he hates waking up with this, too, because it's more of an inconvenience most mornings than anything else. Twenty two minutes, then he'll deal with everything. Stark's absurd coffee maker is somehow wired to know when they're up and about and it'll brew coffee for them by the time they're up, and save for making breakfast, there's nothing to get to. Nothing but enjoying this, basking like some kind of big cat in a million covers.
The hand on Bucky's hip spreads wide, cups it gently, and he exhales, counting seconds in the back of his mind. ]
[ Twenty one minutes, and Bucky is more than half-awake, extremely aware of the splay of Steve's fingers on his hip. He's quiet in the undeniable warmth of it, the comfort that Steve gives without hesitation -- there are good days and bad days, the bad days are ones where Bucky curls into that touch, silently inviting more contact, more than just a taste of intimacy -- the bad days are ones where Bucky recoils from Steve and carves his own space, unable to bear the weight of the other man's care.
Today is a good day. Today is a day where he presses back against him, against that broad incredibly broad, powerful chest; the man is built like a tank, solid and strong, but there is a softness to him spared only for Bucky, he's come to realize from the weeks and months that they'd been together. He doesn't understand why quite yet, but instinct far outstrips knowledge, and it's instinct that makes him reach behind them, between both their bodies to press his palm gently over Steve's half-hard cock.
Hell, even half-hard Bucky can feel the shape and size of him, and he feels a twinge of pleasure in turn, his own stirring in unmistakable interest. Today's going to be one of those days. ]
Today is a good day. Today is a day where he presses back against him, against that broad incredibly broad, powerful chest; the man is built like a tank, solid and strong, but there is a softness to him spared only for Bucky, he's come to realize from the weeks and months that they'd been together. He doesn't understand why quite yet, but instinct far outstrips knowledge, and it's instinct that makes him reach behind them, between both their bodies to press his palm gently over Steve's half-hard cock.
Hell, even half-hard Bucky can feel the shape and size of him, and he feels a twinge of pleasure in turn, his own stirring in unmistakable interest. Today's going to be one of those days. ]
oh wow my fucking autocorrect typos in that last tag I'M SORRY UGH
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dislocked
- 2014-05-02 17:35 (UTC) - Expand[ Tony makes jokes about it - about Cap and the perpetual virginity thing, about how they could take him to a cathouse, go see a lady of the night or whatever you crazy kids called it in those days, and he doesn't seem to get that Steve says he's not interested because he's really, really not interested.
He doesn't think Tony's stupid- he knows Barnes is staying there but Steve's not sure if it's willful ignorance or if it's just Tony being Tony, teasing him about something just because it's easy.
Regardless - there's no need for him to go see anyone. He might not be the leading expert on sex, but he's got a pretty good idea how it works even outside of vanilla things, which is why he and Bucky try this and that. It's what leads them to pressing boundaries; some Steve's too leery to try, like asking to tie Bucky up, or to hold him anywhere too permanently, too wary after finding him years ago, and knowing everything that happened. They stumbled upon cockwarming pretty much on accident, and Steve did a little reading (he can make google work, okay, and he has a tablet which he uses for books and evidently 'googling' porn) which led them here, with his mouth full of Bucky's cock.
There were other ways to do it - or well, one other way, as a guy, but truthfully he's a little afraid of Bucky's legs going numb if he's sitting on him for that long and it's - well, it's something, kneeling on the ground in front of him, breathing in short, slow breaths through his nose. One hand curls its way around Bucky's ankle, thumbs over the soft skin there, and the other hangs loose in his lap where his cock is half-hard.
It's - well, he doesn't think sex is supposed to be relaxing necessarily, but it...is. He doesn't think, doesn't plan, just floats, lets himself focus on this, breathing and kneeling, the slight press against his skin, the low hum of the TV but most of all Bucky just being there. That's enough. ]
He doesn't think Tony's stupid- he knows Barnes is staying there but Steve's not sure if it's willful ignorance or if it's just Tony being Tony, teasing him about something just because it's easy.
Regardless - there's no need for him to go see anyone. He might not be the leading expert on sex, but he's got a pretty good idea how it works even outside of vanilla things, which is why he and Bucky try this and that. It's what leads them to pressing boundaries; some Steve's too leery to try, like asking to tie Bucky up, or to hold him anywhere too permanently, too wary after finding him years ago, and knowing everything that happened. They stumbled upon cockwarming pretty much on accident, and Steve did a little reading (he can make google work, okay, and he has a tablet which he uses for books and evidently 'googling' porn) which led them here, with his mouth full of Bucky's cock.
There were other ways to do it - or well, one other way, as a guy, but truthfully he's a little afraid of Bucky's legs going numb if he's sitting on him for that long and it's - well, it's something, kneeling on the ground in front of him, breathing in short, slow breaths through his nose. One hand curls its way around Bucky's ankle, thumbs over the soft skin there, and the other hangs loose in his lap where his cock is half-hard.
It's - well, he doesn't think sex is supposed to be relaxing necessarily, but it...is. He doesn't think, doesn't plan, just floats, lets himself focus on this, breathing and kneeling, the slight press against his skin, the low hum of the TV but most of all Bucky just being there. That's enough. ]
[ Bucky's likewise surprised at the way sex could be meant for something other than arousal, than the intensity of excitement and passion -- this time, it's a slow burn. He'd decided that he was game to try it out when Steve had mentioned it, pulled up an article on the internet.
There are things that Steve doesn't ask him to try, even if Bucky's seen him looking through it now and then, and perhaps one day Bucky would broach the subject. Tentatively offer the option to him with a few conditions; it's not that he doesn't trust Steve, it's just that the trauma runs a little too deep for it to be completely dissipated within the course of a few years, even with intensive therapy. Tony, of course, doesn't help with the baiting.
But anyway, this time? This one is interesting. He's stroking his fingers through Steve's hair like he's an obedient housepet, loving the slow, gradual burn of having his lover's mouth on his cock, the relaxing feeling of his mouth, so wet and so hot tight around him. It's Game of Thrones, tonight, and he's smiling briefly when he gently thrusts into Steve's throat; not too forcefully, not even intently -- Bucky likes that Steve's keeping his cock nice and warm, and he lets his foot gently rub up against where Steve's cock is half hard, heavy between his legs. ]
There are things that Steve doesn't ask him to try, even if Bucky's seen him looking through it now and then, and perhaps one day Bucky would broach the subject. Tentatively offer the option to him with a few conditions; it's not that he doesn't trust Steve, it's just that the trauma runs a little too deep for it to be completely dissipated within the course of a few years, even with intensive therapy. Tony, of course, doesn't help with the baiting.
But anyway, this time? This one is interesting. He's stroking his fingers through Steve's hair like he's an obedient housepet, loving the slow, gradual burn of having his lover's mouth on his cock, the relaxing feeling of his mouth, so wet and so hot tight around him. It's Game of Thrones, tonight, and he's smiling briefly when he gently thrusts into Steve's throat; not too forcefully, not even intently -- Bucky likes that Steve's keeping his cock nice and warm, and he lets his foot gently rub up against where Steve's cock is half hard, heavy between his legs. ]
[ SO THEN THERE WAS THAT TIME WHERE GATH TRADED THE WINTER SOLDIER FOR PORT PROSPERITY and it was kind of sketch and then some dick tried to knife Jack in an alley and the Winter Soldier stopped him and somehow that merited an actual trial with people coming out of the woodwork trying to use it as an excuse to rekindle the war, or fan the Prosperity rebellion, and only ended up uniting Shiloh's beloved golden boy and her crown prince on the adamant, uncrossable line that no, James Buchanan Barnes was not going to be arrested, or executed, or sent back to Gath.
Jack has no illusions that the Winter Soldier wasn't sent as an assassin. He doesn't know why, exactly, the man had foiled the attempt on his life-- maybe out of professional disgust, because really, really, a junkie in a back alley, when did that even happen any more outside of comic book origin stories-- but he knows that it had nothing to do with orders, not with the way he'd handed Jack his extra side-arm, stuck close to him, had taken point and let Jack cover him until they'd determined that there were no more attackers. It hadn't felt feigned or grudging. It had felt instinctive, two soldiers falling into sync with each other.
The Winter Soldier, despite his name, was not one. He was a spy and a killing machine. Sergeant James Barnes of the Gilboan Army, decorated veteran of the Unification Wars and MIA for seventy years, was another story.
Jack had learned not to pry too much into the past around his bodyguard, the Winter Soldier had lapses where he seemed almost human and lapses where he definitely wasn't, he reacted unpredictably to information about his past. Sometimes Jack thought he surprised him, coaxing out memories that were supposed to have been wiped clean when Jack would offer him a cigarette (the brand he'd seen Barnes smoking in the old pictures) or an off-hand comment on something relevant to that time period. Sometimes the Winter Soldier responded. Sometimes he didn't.
A week after the trial finally ended Jack was back out in the clubs, eager to escape cameras and his father's continual disappointment in his conduct (disappointed this time, he thinks sourly, that Jack hadn't had the good grace to get shot or to kill his attacker himself in a suitably heroic fashion, that he'd had to be rescued at all) and drowning himself in booze and pills and women. The club patrons swirl nervously around the Winter Soldier like fish skirting around a shark and it amuses Jack to watch; he's unfairly handsome, wearing Jack's future face, and has a body sculpted out of marble, and people don't always see the metal arm right away. The club sharks will drift towards him in predatory interest until he looks at them, and then they'll scatter like the little fish they are, figuring out they've attracted the attention of an orca. ]
Jack has no illusions that the Winter Soldier wasn't sent as an assassin. He doesn't know why, exactly, the man had foiled the attempt on his life-- maybe out of professional disgust, because really, really, a junkie in a back alley, when did that even happen any more outside of comic book origin stories-- but he knows that it had nothing to do with orders, not with the way he'd handed Jack his extra side-arm, stuck close to him, had taken point and let Jack cover him until they'd determined that there were no more attackers. It hadn't felt feigned or grudging. It had felt instinctive, two soldiers falling into sync with each other.
The Winter Soldier, despite his name, was not one. He was a spy and a killing machine. Sergeant James Barnes of the Gilboan Army, decorated veteran of the Unification Wars and MIA for seventy years, was another story.
Jack had learned not to pry too much into the past around his bodyguard, the Winter Soldier had lapses where he seemed almost human and lapses where he definitely wasn't, he reacted unpredictably to information about his past. Sometimes Jack thought he surprised him, coaxing out memories that were supposed to have been wiped clean when Jack would offer him a cigarette (the brand he'd seen Barnes smoking in the old pictures) or an off-hand comment on something relevant to that time period. Sometimes the Winter Soldier responded. Sometimes he didn't.
A week after the trial finally ended Jack was back out in the clubs, eager to escape cameras and his father's continual disappointment in his conduct (disappointed this time, he thinks sourly, that Jack hadn't had the good grace to get shot or to kill his attacker himself in a suitably heroic fashion, that he'd had to be rescued at all) and drowning himself in booze and pills and women. The club patrons swirl nervously around the Winter Soldier like fish skirting around a shark and it amuses Jack to watch; he's unfairly handsome, wearing Jack's future face, and has a body sculpted out of marble, and people don't always see the metal arm right away. The club sharks will drift towards him in predatory interest until he looks at them, and then they'll scatter like the little fish they are, figuring out they've attracted the attention of an orca. ]
[ It's not often that Jack wakes up before his boys. Steve had military wake-up calls drilled into his bones, apparently, and liked to be up and running before the sun was even up (and often before Jack had even gone to bed, Gilboa time zones are hell on his sleep schedule) and Bucky had more than earned the right to choose when he wanted to sleep and when he wanted to be awake, but for obvious reasons he tended to follow Steve's lead.
This morning, for whatever reason (okay, for the specific reason of some marathon sex last night) both super-soldiers are still out like lights, curled into each other like overgrown puppies, Bucky's dark hair fanned against the sheets, expression relaxed in sleep and unbearably young, and Steve's face mashed into his shoulder, tucked in against him as if his body had forgotten anything had changed from the days when he'd been small enough to fit against his best friend.
Jack spends a long minute just watching them, stupidly fond, and then grabs his phone for pictures because he's a terrible person. He's still bruised and sore from last night and there's probably unmentionable shit in his hair but there's very little evidence left on Steve and Bucky, the only marks still remaining the ones inflicted by Bucky's metal hand. Jack doesn't mind wearing their bruises, though. Doesn't mind walking with a slight limp, or the hoarseness of his voice after he's insisted they take turns using his mouth. They have to hold back with him out of necessity, but not as much as they seem to think they do. Jack's had more sexual experience than both of them put together and most of it with soldiers who got off on man-handling the crown prince.
He brushes his teeth and slips into the shower, biting his lip to hold back a noise as he fingers himself back open easily and pushes in a plug, clenching around it just to savor the soreness.
He crawls back onto the bed a bit later, silk robe still clinging to his damp and flushed skin and draws himself up to his knees, watching them with smug possessiveness and shamelessly pre-gaming, palming himself through the thin material. ]
This morning, for whatever reason (okay, for the specific reason of some marathon sex last night) both super-soldiers are still out like lights, curled into each other like overgrown puppies, Bucky's dark hair fanned against the sheets, expression relaxed in sleep and unbearably young, and Steve's face mashed into his shoulder, tucked in against him as if his body had forgotten anything had changed from the days when he'd been small enough to fit against his best friend.
Jack spends a long minute just watching them, stupidly fond, and then grabs his phone for pictures because he's a terrible person. He's still bruised and sore from last night and there's probably unmentionable shit in his hair but there's very little evidence left on Steve and Bucky, the only marks still remaining the ones inflicted by Bucky's metal hand. Jack doesn't mind wearing their bruises, though. Doesn't mind walking with a slight limp, or the hoarseness of his voice after he's insisted they take turns using his mouth. They have to hold back with him out of necessity, but not as much as they seem to think they do. Jack's had more sexual experience than both of them put together and most of it with soldiers who got off on man-handling the crown prince.
He brushes his teeth and slips into the shower, biting his lip to hold back a noise as he fingers himself back open easily and pushes in a plug, clenching around it just to savor the soreness.
He crawls back onto the bed a bit later, silk robe still clinging to his damp and flushed skin and draws himself up to his knees, watching them with smug possessiveness and shamelessly pre-gaming, palming himself through the thin material. ]
[ Steve still sleeps light, even now. Even when he knows it's safe, it doesn't stop him from waking up when one of them enters or leaves the room or bed. By the same way, he can also fall asleep nearly instantly when it's all said and done so it doesn't upset him too much.
Jack rolls out of bed and Steve slits an eye enough to know what's going on, and then as soon as he's determined it safe, stretches out and mashes his face a little further into Bucky's shoulder, exhaling.
The shower runs and stops and Steve can't quite make himself move out of the bed, not quite exhausted but edging on it, which is impressive. Mostly, he just doesn't want to move away from Bucky, because he knows Jack'll be back soon enough. He gives it a few moments when Jack comes back and yawns hugely, jaw cracking as he shifts in the bed and watches Jack touch himself. Serum or not, he knows he'd be effected just watching that, but it means that it's a helluva lot easier to get up and interested at the drop of a hat.
He gives Jack a tiny smile, and slides one hand up, curling it loosely through Bucky's hair so his blunt nails scratch over his head in slow, smooth strokes. ]
Jack rolls out of bed and Steve slits an eye enough to know what's going on, and then as soon as he's determined it safe, stretches out and mashes his face a little further into Bucky's shoulder, exhaling.
The shower runs and stops and Steve can't quite make himself move out of the bed, not quite exhausted but edging on it, which is impressive. Mostly, he just doesn't want to move away from Bucky, because he knows Jack'll be back soon enough. He gives it a few moments when Jack comes back and yawns hugely, jaw cracking as he shifts in the bed and watches Jack touch himself. Serum or not, he knows he'd be effected just watching that, but it means that it's a helluva lot easier to get up and interested at the drop of a hat.
He gives Jack a tiny smile, and slides one hand up, curling it loosely through Bucky's hair so his blunt nails scratch over his head in slow, smooth strokes. ]
[ So of all the weird sit-down conferences Jack's ever attended, the one where Sam Wilson and Tony Stark call him in to talk very seriously about 'touch therapy' for the freaking Winter Soldier has to be one of the weirdest, mostly because Steve's not there. Jack's been to these sort of conferences before but typically it's been in a moral support fashion, holding Steve's shoulder (not his hand, Steve got nervous during these and could crush bones accidentally) or on one memorable occasion plopping himself down entirely in Steve's lap when the man had had a mini panic attack, pressing their brows together and ordering him in his best drill sergeant voice to breathe in and out with him, to count it.
Not that it wasn't warranted. No one had known the full extent of the physical damage until they'd gotten Bucky settled enough to submit to an engineer (Tony), and then an actual doctor, and found out just what they'd done to turn him into a perfect weapon. They'd turned off his nerves. Dialed down pain responses, dialed down everything human about him to make him as close to a robot as possible, something which Iron Man took serious offense to.
Three surgeries and a lot of Stark Tech later, they'd managed to restore most of his natural responses, but now it was a case of slowly getting him used to ordinary physical sensation again. He was frighteningly used to pain but soft touches had the power to unnerve him, things like warmth and closeness sparking off random reactions where he'd waffle between being desperate for it and lashing out.
Steve's still the only one that can take his full strength without fear, but that wasn't good enough. He needed to be re-socialized to endure contact with ordinary squishy humans, for Steve's sake as well as his own. Steve was already trying desperately to be everything Bucky needed, which of course was impossible, and they had enough codependency issues already. Bucky needed more than any one person, even Captain America, could give.
Sam assures him with a straight face that it's not a sex thing (except it's totally a sex thing, or they wouldn't have called him here alone), and the word 'intimacy' is used more times than Jack wants to count (at least Tony also looks vaguely ill every time) and Jack gets it, he'd done his homework on PTSD and pt. Steve's a trauma victim too. Physicality is a huge part of rehab and so is sex.
Also apparently Steve and Bucky had both separately brought up the issue to Sam, that they wanted to, that they'd tried, and things just didn't work out. Or work, period. Steve was terrified of doing something wrong and Bucky had a hard enough time predicting and controlling his own body's reactions these days without feeling like a constant disappointment.
(In Jack's professional opinion, letting them fumble with each other was like the blind leading the blind, with Steve being almost as oblivious about his new body as Bucky was, but there weren't exactly a lot of other options. Steve had been scared of hurting Jack before Jack had gotten his buttons all figured out, it stood to reason that Bucky wouldn't even think of asking Jack when he was still afraid of hurting Steve.)
Bucky's only been home four days from his last upgrade, which according to Stark should have been 'restoring full functionality' in that wink wink nudge nudge sort of way. Steve had been home with him the first seventy-two hours (the usual adjustment period where any panic attacks or violent reactions typically happen) and then called away on a mission, which meant it was Jack's job to take over the conditioning. He's not bothered by it, Jack's got his own rat's nest of physical contact issues which include craving it like a junkie when he can get away with it, but he slips back into the apartment as quietly as he can just in case Bucky's asleep. Apparently over-stimulation from recalibrated nerves (and popping wood a dozen times an hour) is really tiring.
He's also not sure how he wants to broach the subject of 'so Stark and Wilson think we should turn our mandatory platonic cuddling into non-platonic cuddling because of science and therapy reasons, how do you feel about that etc.' ]
Not that it wasn't warranted. No one had known the full extent of the physical damage until they'd gotten Bucky settled enough to submit to an engineer (Tony), and then an actual doctor, and found out just what they'd done to turn him into a perfect weapon. They'd turned off his nerves. Dialed down pain responses, dialed down everything human about him to make him as close to a robot as possible, something which Iron Man took serious offense to.
Three surgeries and a lot of Stark Tech later, they'd managed to restore most of his natural responses, but now it was a case of slowly getting him used to ordinary physical sensation again. He was frighteningly used to pain but soft touches had the power to unnerve him, things like warmth and closeness sparking off random reactions where he'd waffle between being desperate for it and lashing out.
Steve's still the only one that can take his full strength without fear, but that wasn't good enough. He needed to be re-socialized to endure contact with ordinary squishy humans, for Steve's sake as well as his own. Steve was already trying desperately to be everything Bucky needed, which of course was impossible, and they had enough codependency issues already. Bucky needed more than any one person, even Captain America, could give.
Sam assures him with a straight face that it's not a sex thing (except it's totally a sex thing, or they wouldn't have called him here alone), and the word 'intimacy' is used more times than Jack wants to count (at least Tony also looks vaguely ill every time) and Jack gets it, he'd done his homework on PTSD and pt. Steve's a trauma victim too. Physicality is a huge part of rehab and so is sex.
Also apparently Steve and Bucky had both separately brought up the issue to Sam, that they wanted to, that they'd tried, and things just didn't work out. Or work, period. Steve was terrified of doing something wrong and Bucky had a hard enough time predicting and controlling his own body's reactions these days without feeling like a constant disappointment.
(In Jack's professional opinion, letting them fumble with each other was like the blind leading the blind, with Steve being almost as oblivious about his new body as Bucky was, but there weren't exactly a lot of other options. Steve had been scared of hurting Jack before Jack had gotten his buttons all figured out, it stood to reason that Bucky wouldn't even think of asking Jack when he was still afraid of hurting Steve.)
Bucky's only been home four days from his last upgrade, which according to Stark should have been 'restoring full functionality' in that wink wink nudge nudge sort of way. Steve had been home with him the first seventy-two hours (the usual adjustment period where any panic attacks or violent reactions typically happen) and then called away on a mission, which meant it was Jack's job to take over the conditioning. He's not bothered by it, Jack's got his own rat's nest of physical contact issues which include craving it like a junkie when he can get away with it, but he slips back into the apartment as quietly as he can just in case Bucky's asleep. Apparently over-stimulation from recalibrated nerves (and popping wood a dozen times an hour) is really tiring.
He's also not sure how he wants to broach the subject of 'so Stark and Wilson think we should turn our mandatory platonic cuddling into non-platonic cuddling because of science and therapy reasons, how do you feel about that etc.' ]
[ It's rough, picking up the pieces of a psyche that had been broken over and over, reprogrammed with all the humanity burned out of him -- the damage hadn't just been physical; but they'd start at that for the time being. Bucky needed help and he knew it, but it took him long enough to even agree to submit to Stark. Bruce had been called in, too; the mild-mannered doctor best suited for situations like these, who could understand the feeling of having a monster under your skin, a creature that doesn't stray far, and yet the damage, the pain, the hurt inflicted --
-- well.
Jack is exceptionally patient, considering the circumstances -- and the other Avengers knew that (startling physical similarities aside) they needed him to be a buffer for them both, to be someone that could support Steve and take it all without the emotional baggage. Bucky and Steve are awfully, terribly codependent, and there are far too many things that bled between them but that's a whole new different kind of monster altogether, and they can only deal with one at a time. They'd tried, of course they'd tried, but they were both damaged soldiers, broken in hundreds of tiny little ways and it would be impossible to achieve any sort of intimacy with the both of them being so locked in their minds, in their fear for each other.
Bucky remembers the time he'd almost killed Steve, the words spoken quietly; the way he looked so ready to go -- and he panics, wakes up sometimes believing that he'd really killed him. The man he is now could hurt Steve or worse, and the guilt of it combined with all the other guilt is crushing. But Bucky... copes. He goes to therapy sessions with Sam and they help a little, but nothing can help with the way his body betrays him, when he doesn't trust himself to react the right way.
But he's greedy for love, for affection and softness; he alternates and sometimes he lashes out, but the reminder that Jack could be hurt, that he could be broken serves as a restraint, a conscious concern that leaves Bucky extremely careful around Jack himself; because if he could kill Steve, well; he could break Jack, and he's realized that it's not something he wants to do either. Jack helps, in his own way -- Jack is what keeps them from fucking imploding on themselves, and they owe him for it. Bucky copes surprisingly well with the latest upgrade, but only because he's far too tired to be properly freaking out. Over-stimulation is exhausting, and popping wood is worse, especially if he makes a mess; but the endorphins it releases soothes him, keeps him from freaking th fuck out. Pleasure, sensation, feeling -- he's relearning them all over again, tentative and uncertain, but this evening finds Bucky apparently deciding to do the chores, having removed the laundry from the dryer and folding them in the living room.
It distracts him, lets him run his fingers through the soft, cottony fabric; it's unobtrusive enough to slowly ease him into the pleasantness of touch, and he looks up when Jack returns. His hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, and he's in a borrowed shirt and jeans -- if not for the metal arm, he'd almost have passed off for someone normal. ]
[ There is, naturally, a Hydra faction stationed in Russia; the original home of the Winter Soldier - so that is where they are headed, catching a connection in Krakau after the first flight, this bizarre mutual quest to work their way through the Hydra ranks (to different ends, for differing reasons - but it's a common goal, for the moment) continuing even now, incongruous as it seems as they sit in the airport terminal; by gate seven, waiting for the flight to begin boarding - it's such a mundane context for them both, but a necessary one. There always have been these points of limbo between operations, between missions, even in the old days. It's more obscure now, to have the soldier seated beside him; there's a lull between them, has been for a while - what could they possibly have to speak about? Rumlow finds the silence is not unwelcome, although the company is relatively heavy.
It's a quiet flight, only one or two homebound travellers are in the airport lounge; rain batters the glass of the windows, obscuring the airplanes outside; a misty haze forming on the distant runways. It's unseasonably cold, and Rumlow briefly grimaces at the thought of Russia in early winter. He pulls out their boarding passes - one more hour until boarding, and then to the former winter soldier; gaze lingering on the curve of his jaw.
They're far from friends - they're only tenuously allies. But there is that draw; and it's magnetic, regardless of their associations and previous history (or perhaps it's a direct result of that previous history). After the first night, something was reestablished, even with the soldier's new command of his own agency, his own will. Reestablished as something even more consumptive, more engulfing that what had come before it.
Rumlow keeps his voice pitched quietly, leaning to speak closer to the other's ear: ] Twelve hours to Krakau, then four to Moscow.
Edited 2014-10-05 21:19 (UTC)
[ Bucky nods once, curt. He's accustomed to the way the other man leans in close, the fact that he's come to belong within his circle of space when he would usually hold all others at arm's length. He thinks of vengeance, of blood and fire and retribution, but they're distant to him now, taking a backseat to the idle thoughts he entertains about rain on the glass, droplets racing each other to get to the bottom.
Rumlow is by his side, constant but dangerous -- Bucky doesn't trust his allegiance, and that's fine with the both of them; he's sure that the man doesn't trust him either. What they have is a ragged, dangerous attraction to each other, as powerful as it is hazardous to the both of them. They're both flawed, damaged beyond all recognition, and Bucky recognizes the hate in Rumlow as surely as the man recognizes it in him, too. They would consume each other if they're not careful, but it's evident that neither of them care.
He glances at the gate, then at the boarding passes, relaxed in his seat. ] You should get yourself a coffee.
Rumlow is by his side, constant but dangerous -- Bucky doesn't trust his allegiance, and that's fine with the both of them; he's sure that the man doesn't trust him either. What they have is a ragged, dangerous attraction to each other, as powerful as it is hazardous to the both of them. They're both flawed, damaged beyond all recognition, and Bucky recognizes the hate in Rumlow as surely as the man recognizes it in him, too. They would consume each other if they're not careful, but it's evident that neither of them care.
He glances at the gate, then at the boarding passes, relaxed in his seat. ] You should get yourself a coffee.
[ Sunlight tracks its way across the floor in the slat from the open window; and he rolls over, sheets tangled about his legs and it's quiet aside from the gentle clatter of the shutters and billowing curtains. Head jammed against the pillow, he keeps his eyes shut - half aware that there's somewhere they're supposed to be in about forty-five minutes, but not awake enough to properly comprehend this. He's uncertain of where they are, which myriad bed he's in now - which city, town, village. Seagulls call from the distance and it takes him a moment to realise that the roar that he can hear is not the wind, but the sea. The French Riviera. It comes back to him in drabs; the faded fishing village with its white-washed walls and cobbled streets lined with bougainvillea; the market on Sunday, the stray cats - they'd landed in Monaco around twenty-four hours ago, their target was dead within twelve, and, apparently, they only fly back stateside sometime next week.
Barnes is pressed against him, skin-hot cotton against his flank, a few strands of dark hair caught in his mouth where the other's head has been wedged there. The room has taken on a hazy tint, and, opening his eyes - Rumlow resolves that the entire thing (all of it - the mission, the next destination, the next fight, clash, argument) can wait just ten minutes longer.
The former Winter Soldier; his great enemy. Rumlow, least of all, would have pictured the pair of them as they are now - wrapped around each other in a bed somewhere on the French coast, not all that far from the Catalonian border. They can be at odds when it's past midday, surely.
(Vaguely, he wonders where the knife is hidden this time; beneath the mattress, behind the headboard. His gun is still wrapped up, tucked into a jacket pocket that hangs on the back of the bathroom door).
One day he knows, inevitably, it'll find its way into his gut - somewhere between his ribs, below his sternum.
(Perhaps it already has). ]
[ The knife is hidden under his pillow. The gun, tucked between the mattress and the headboard, all within easy reach because the easiest way to die is in your sleep. But Bucky sleeps better than he's ever had in awhile, accustomed to the warm body beside him, the fact that Rumlow is as likely to kill him as he is starting a charitable home for wayward boys.
No, it's easy: they both need each other (although the parameters of that are shifting day by day, and it's no longer that simple -- they never were that simple), and for one to kill the other would be a) pointless and b), wretchedly counterproductive. He's tangled with Rumlow, limbs and bodies intimately entwined while the sun works its way up the sky.
Bucky shifts, attuned to Rumlow's waking moments despite himself, his face had been buried in the man's shoulder sometime during the night, an arm around his waist almost possessively. He exhales, the soft, sweet wind filling the room with a light, airy pleasantness that they've rarely ever indulged in. ]
...You're awake.
No, it's easy: they both need each other (although the parameters of that are shifting day by day, and it's no longer that simple -- they never were that simple), and for one to kill the other would be a) pointless and b), wretchedly counterproductive. He's tangled with Rumlow, limbs and bodies intimately entwined while the sun works its way up the sky.
Bucky shifts, attuned to Rumlow's waking moments despite himself, his face had been buried in the man's shoulder sometime during the night, an arm around his waist almost possessively. He exhales, the soft, sweet wind filling the room with a light, airy pleasantness that they've rarely ever indulged in. ]
...You're awake.
[It's morning again, not that you'd know it by looking out the window. The outside world is just shades of gray now, as perpetual as the steady beat of the rain. He missses blue sky, the sound of birds singing. Around here, he's lucky if he hears a crow cawing.
Steve steps out of his room, gives the shadows in either direction a good look. The place never stops being creepy, he'll give it that. Some of the people barely leave their rooms, and Steve makes a point to check on them, make sure they have something from breakfast in their mini fridge. He heads down that way now, choosing the stairs over the elevator. Let's just say he's had some bad experiences in one.
He hears something halfway down the first flight, a sound so insubstantial that it could've been just the scamperings of a mouse. If that's the case, this hotel has a real rodent problem. Steve hears it every time he leaves his room.]
Is someone up there?
Steve steps out of his room, gives the shadows in either direction a good look. The place never stops being creepy, he'll give it that. Some of the people barely leave their rooms, and Steve makes a point to check on them, make sure they have something from breakfast in their mini fridge. He heads down that way now, choosing the stairs over the elevator. Let's just say he's had some bad experiences in one.
He hears something halfway down the first flight, a sound so insubstantial that it could've been just the scamperings of a mouse. If that's the case, this hotel has a real rodent problem. Steve hears it every time he leaves his room.]
Is someone up there?
[ At this point, Bucky's of the opinion that rodent infestations are the least of anyone's problems. He's heard whispers, seen shadows that are just a few seconds to slow to dissipate, strange things that slither in between the spaces of light, out of the corner of one's eye. He's testy at the lack of firearms, but he improvises, decides to quietly guard Steve Rogers' door to ensure that nothing happens to him.
Penance, perhaps; or the strange, unmistakable pull to the man, instincts that cut deep through the programming to protect, to draw close but still stay out of sight. His memories come back, slowly but surely, and with it comes the slow burn of horror, the blood on his hands, the complete, unrelenting lack of control, himself a disposable asset, something so much less than human.
So when he hears Steve speak up, he deliberately stays silent, shifting deeper into the shadows and hoping that he doesn't pursue -- perhaps if all's quiet the man would move on, and Bucky could stay as his silent guardian for as long as they're here. ]
Penance, perhaps; or the strange, unmistakable pull to the man, instincts that cut deep through the programming to protect, to draw close but still stay out of sight. His memories come back, slowly but surely, and with it comes the slow burn of horror, the blood on his hands, the complete, unrelenting lack of control, himself a disposable asset, something so much less than human.
So when he hears Steve speak up, he deliberately stays silent, shifting deeper into the shadows and hoping that he doesn't pursue -- perhaps if all's quiet the man would move on, and Bucky could stay as his silent guardian for as long as they're here. ]
[After the war - after all of the tears, the speeches, the wordless moments of grief - even war heroes couldn't be as strong as the world wished them to be.]
[When the decorated heroes wanted peace and quiet, Harry had Grimmauld Place, and Ron had the Burrow. Hermione, on the other hand, had Muggle London.]
[The familiar hustle and bustle of the city was welcome to her, especially as the world simply passed her by. No one snapped photographs of her. No one shook her hand and asked her in hushed tones about how difficult it must have been to vanquish Voldemort alongside the Boy Who Lived. No one goggled at her in awe. Here, in Muggle London, she was just Hermione Granger, bushy-haired bookworm, content to sit at a cafe and read her newest book.]
[However, she never truly stopped glancing behind her back.]
[It was there, at a cafe, that she noticed someone just like her - a man, scarred (inside, it seemed), who seemed ill at ease. Those who lived through a war never could believe when it was over.]
[Intuition prickled at the base of her spine, and she gave him a smile, gesturing to the empty seat across her. He could join her if he wished.]
[When the decorated heroes wanted peace and quiet, Harry had Grimmauld Place, and Ron had the Burrow. Hermione, on the other hand, had Muggle London.]
[The familiar hustle and bustle of the city was welcome to her, especially as the world simply passed her by. No one snapped photographs of her. No one shook her hand and asked her in hushed tones about how difficult it must have been to vanquish Voldemort alongside the Boy Who Lived. No one goggled at her in awe. Here, in Muggle London, she was just Hermione Granger, bushy-haired bookworm, content to sit at a cafe and read her newest book.]
[However, she never truly stopped glancing behind her back.]
[It was there, at a cafe, that she noticed someone just like her - a man, scarred (inside, it seemed), who seemed ill at ease. Those who lived through a war never could believe when it was over.]
[Intuition prickled at the base of her spine, and she gave him a smile, gesturing to the empty seat across her. He could join her if he wished.]
[ there's always something, isn't it? julian might still be young enough to get called a boy rather than a man, but he has an acute understanding of these things. of things like necessity and the significance of not always playing strictly by the rules. most importantly, however, he knows that sometimes... well, sometimes it's best not to ask too many questions and just do as told.
but not even julian's patience is infinite when it comes to the matter of his grandmother and her thinly veiled antipathy for him. and he still hasn't forgiven her for stealing (and destroying some of) his photos from easier times, not deep down.
sometimes he just wants some time to breathe, you know? it doesn't particularly matter to him that it's late, nor does it matter that the snow's falling down with all its might. he just wraps his coat and scarf tighter around himself, letting the chilly stinging in his cheeks have its fun.
there are places he likes to go when he'd like to be alone, and this is one of them: a small restaurant with dim lighting, not enough room between the tables, and a courtyard that offers some decent shelter from the wind if he doesn't feel like going inside even though this place is open so late.
he's not entirely sure why he decides to speak to the man he finds only a couple of steps from his usual spot under the sickly-looking little tree. maybe he's just eager to speak with an uninvolved third party. ]
I don't think I've seen you here before.
but not even julian's patience is infinite when it comes to the matter of his grandmother and her thinly veiled antipathy for him. and he still hasn't forgiven her for stealing (and destroying some of) his photos from easier times, not deep down.
sometimes he just wants some time to breathe, you know? it doesn't particularly matter to him that it's late, nor does it matter that the snow's falling down with all its might. he just wraps his coat and scarf tighter around himself, letting the chilly stinging in his cheeks have its fun.
there are places he likes to go when he'd like to be alone, and this is one of them: a small restaurant with dim lighting, not enough room between the tables, and a courtyard that offers some decent shelter from the wind if he doesn't feel like going inside even though this place is open so late.
he's not entirely sure why he decides to speak to the man he finds only a couple of steps from his usual spot under the sickly-looking little tree. maybe he's just eager to speak with an uninvolved third party. ]
I don't think I've seen you here before.
[ these days, matt keeps his first aid kit close at hand, and incredibly well-stocked. he has to, for all the nights he ends up bleeding on his couch, stitching himself up by feel and memory alone. it's a system that barely works, but the thing about being blind is that people expect you to be hapless and vulnerable. all he has to do is make up some half-baked excuse about an accident, questions about his injuries tend to transform into concerned admonishments
maybe we should look into getting you a dog? a service dog? is karen's suggestion, and matt laughs like he knows he ought to.
but tonight, the kit isn't for him, it's for bucky. james "bucky" barnes, one in a long line of boxers to step into the shady rings of underground clubs in hell's kitchen. the difference is that bucky has a better record than his father ever had. he's very good at what he does. he's the kind of prizefighter that betting men love, a kid who could really make it into the big leagues one day. but even the best fighters lose, and that night he'd lost pretty badly.
pissed off a bunch of betters, too. but that's a problem for another night, when matt isn't helping james up to his apartment with one of his arms thrown across his neck. he knows that going to the hospital probably isn't an option. people like them -- well. people like his father used to be, the ones who got paid cash under the table, they didn't get insurance. and boxing isn't a profession known for its benefits packages.
matt swings the door open, and at the last moment he remembers to flick the light switch on - for james' benefit, of course. he's moving him slowly towards the couch, bearing most of his weight before he plops the other man down onto it. )
I need to describe your injuries for me. There's a lot I can figure out by touch, but it's easier this way.
( he doesn't waste any time in flipping the first aid kit open, with swift and practised movements of someone who has done this time and time again. )
maybe we should look into getting you a dog? a service dog? is karen's suggestion, and matt laughs like he knows he ought to.
but tonight, the kit isn't for him, it's for bucky. james "bucky" barnes, one in a long line of boxers to step into the shady rings of underground clubs in hell's kitchen. the difference is that bucky has a better record than his father ever had. he's very good at what he does. he's the kind of prizefighter that betting men love, a kid who could really make it into the big leagues one day. but even the best fighters lose, and that night he'd lost pretty badly.
pissed off a bunch of betters, too. but that's a problem for another night, when matt isn't helping james up to his apartment with one of his arms thrown across his neck. he knows that going to the hospital probably isn't an option. people like them -- well. people like his father used to be, the ones who got paid cash under the table, they didn't get insurance. and boxing isn't a profession known for its benefits packages.
matt swings the door open, and at the last moment he remembers to flick the light switch on - for james' benefit, of course. he's moving him slowly towards the couch, bearing most of his weight before he plops the other man down onto it. )
I need to describe your injuries for me. There's a lot I can figure out by touch, but it's easier this way.
( he doesn't waste any time in flipping the first aid kit open, with swift and practised movements of someone who has done this time and time again. )
[ Tonight's not his night, that's all; and when it rains, it fucking pours. James doesn't regret a single moment of it, not the loss and not the provocation, ferocious and unyielding when it comes to picking fights he's not entirely sure he can win.
But those are the best kinds of victories, the sweetest, when you spit out the blood and grit in your mouth and the accompanying pain provides a clarity as to what really matters. Winning against all possible odds, and surpassing all expectations.
He and Matt are as different as night and day (or actually not all that different at all, depending on which aspect of Matt Murdock you look at); James Barnes was born on the rough streets and knew an even rougher life, streetsmart and far too clever for his own good, with an excellent pair of fists and a killer instinct that has never led him wrong.
Matt, however, seems ambivalent to violence and all that it brings with it. On nights like these, it's Matt that is there for him, and he attends to James with a measured, precise sort of care that reminds him just who his father was. Battlin' Jack Murdock, who took a lot of hits and just kept going, until one day he didn't.
James doesn't ask much about Jack, figures that Matt will tell him about it when the time is ripe - after all, his lover is a private creature, and he keeps his own secrets, even though it's never sat all too well with James. Still, Matt is here, and he slumps heavily onto the couch, exhausted and bruised and bloody.
He's running a hand through his hair, listening out for any hints of displeasure -- and when he finds little to none, he exhales, blinking at the light, and aware that it's courtesy that Matt extends to him unfailingly. Matt is thoughtful in all the little ways, and he can't help but study him for a few moments, distracted by what he's doing before he catches himself. Remembers what is asked of him. ]
A cut above the eyebrow. Right. Probably need a couple of stitches there. Four, five, maybe. The rest are -- [ He pauses. ] You don't have to do the rest, they're just bruises and shallow cuts.
But those are the best kinds of victories, the sweetest, when you spit out the blood and grit in your mouth and the accompanying pain provides a clarity as to what really matters. Winning against all possible odds, and surpassing all expectations.
He and Matt are as different as night and day (or actually not all that different at all, depending on which aspect of Matt Murdock you look at); James Barnes was born on the rough streets and knew an even rougher life, streetsmart and far too clever for his own good, with an excellent pair of fists and a killer instinct that has never led him wrong.
Matt, however, seems ambivalent to violence and all that it brings with it. On nights like these, it's Matt that is there for him, and he attends to James with a measured, precise sort of care that reminds him just who his father was. Battlin' Jack Murdock, who took a lot of hits and just kept going, until one day he didn't.
James doesn't ask much about Jack, figures that Matt will tell him about it when the time is ripe - after all, his lover is a private creature, and he keeps his own secrets, even though it's never sat all too well with James. Still, Matt is here, and he slumps heavily onto the couch, exhausted and bruised and bloody.
He's running a hand through his hair, listening out for any hints of displeasure -- and when he finds little to none, he exhales, blinking at the light, and aware that it's courtesy that Matt extends to him unfailingly. Matt is thoughtful in all the little ways, and he can't help but study him for a few moments, distracted by what he's doing before he catches himself. Remembers what is asked of him. ]
A cut above the eyebrow. Right. Probably need a couple of stitches there. Four, five, maybe. The rest are -- [ He pauses. ] You don't have to do the rest, they're just bruises and shallow cuts.
[ It starts with a run.
-
They hang their shoes on a nearby tree bough on a whim. Steve calls it ridiculous. Bucky asks if he's scared he's gonna lose.
-
There's no race here.
"No way," Steve says, arms folding as he tosses his sneakers up.
-
It's a run off their usual route where the grass squelches wet underneath the soles of his feet and Bucky is running beside him, nose to nose. It's not a race, it's the sort of thing Steve imagines wolves do when they run side by side. They test one another, pull ahead a little, fall back a bit, they nudge and push, smile softly with teeth, and the grass sounds off with a gently wet noise beneath them, rustles, crunches a bit. There's no more marked way, no muddy road, no stone or brick, just the green underneath them. Even here, outside, between trees, it's grass and it's dirty and it's the occasional stone or fallen branch and here they are in nature's early morning glory. He loves it. He loves the light filtering through the branches and the feel of it in his eyes. He likes his wet ankles and the feeling of the trees going dense and close.
He likes running off the beaten path. He's beat the path for too long. He wants to fall and be caught.
(He wants to catch and save, to hold close, to never release.)
-
It starts with a run and ends half-naked in the grass.
Or maybe that's the middle of the story.
-
This is how it all falls into place.
It only takes a split second for Steve to decide that they're going down and they're going down hard. It only takes one second for him to look Bucky in the eye as they slow to a bouncing, heavy kind of tired lope before he reaches out and pushes him down with a quiet "Hi" on his lips as they land with a thud. We're done running. We're done for this morning. We're done.
It'll leave a bruise on his knees, on Bucky's shoulders.
But the grass is soft and wet and he can feel the morning dew seeping into his skin as he has Bucky pushed down and his face pressed into the jut of his jaw bone, the stubble on his face, the sweat sliding over the structure of his cheek. He's breathing him in just to hold him in his lungs, legs planted on either side of him
He's tired of running, he just wants to fall (with him).
-
Maybe he's already fallen with him in a different kind of way. He feels it when he presses his knees a little into Bucky's sides and leans forward to press a kiss to his mouth, kind of crooked and laughing because he went down hard and with force like his, his shins smart. ]
I'm saying I win by default.
And I'm saying I let you.
[ Bucky falls with him, morning dew in soft grass, aching shoulders and stinging shins -- everything that comes with running like wolves in a stolen, shining piece of nature, woods and grass that close them off from the world.
Steve Rogers smiles down at him like he's the sun, and Bucky wonders if this is what being blinded feels like, when he reaches for him, metal fingers curling in the strong line of the back of his neck. His lips part and he kisses him back, passionate and just a touch graceless.
Hi, yourself.
His other arm comes to wrap around Steve's waist, and he feels light-headed, dew seeping into the back of his shirt; see, Bucky's caught him now. He tastes earth and sweat and the sweetness of Steve's mouth, the way he's had too little for too long and he kisses him again like a man starved. Bucky's chest heaves, and it's Steve's heart that pounds in his ribs; fully given over at the first whisper, the first step.
They run like wolves and tumble into each other like lovers, and he doesn't a remember a time when horror and regret doesn't burn like rust-ash in his mouth. Now, his lips tingle with Steve's taste, and he rolls Steve over on his back, eyes dark with promise. The other man gleams golden in the dappled sunlight, and he straddles him this time. It seems fitting that even in here, Steve forms the center of his world -- even when HYDRA had him in its thrall, Steve was never burned away like everything else. Not for long.
He wonders if he knows this. He wonders if it's safe to say. He bites his lip, dark hair falling into his face, and he leans down to kiss him again. ]
[ Bucky falls with him, morning dew in soft grass, aching shoulders and stinging shins -- everything that comes with running like wolves in a stolen, shining piece of nature, woods and grass that close them off from the world.
Steve Rogers smiles down at him like he's the sun, and Bucky wonders if this is what being blinded feels like, when he reaches for him, metal fingers curling in the strong line of the back of his neck. His lips part and he kisses him back, passionate and just a touch graceless.
Hi, yourself.
His other arm comes to wrap around Steve's waist, and he feels light-headed, dew seeping into the back of his shirt; see, Bucky's caught him now. He tastes earth and sweat and the sweetness of Steve's mouth, the way he's had too little for too long and he kisses him again like a man starved. Bucky's chest heaves, and it's Steve's heart that pounds in his ribs; fully given over at the first whisper, the first step.
They run like wolves and tumble into each other like lovers, and he doesn't a remember a time when horror and regret doesn't burn like rust-ash in his mouth. Now, his lips tingle with Steve's taste, and he rolls Steve over on his back, eyes dark with promise. The other man gleams golden in the dappled sunlight, and he straddles him this time. It seems fitting that even in here, Steve forms the center of his world -- even when HYDRA had him in its thrall, Steve was never burned away like everything else. Not for long.
He wonders if he knows this. He wonders if it's safe to say. He bites his lip, dark hair falling into his face, and he leans down to kiss him again. ]
[ He doesn't scar.
It's not something Steve's ever thought on. There's a science behind his body that no one left alive can accurately predict. In a way, that's no so different from how things were before, back when his body was a obstacle instead of a tool.
He's standing in front of the dirty mirror in the bathroom. His jacket and shirt have been peeled off, set aside, and he's poking at a knife wound on his left shoulder from two hours ago that probably needs stitches. There's alcohol in the cabinets. Bandages. Necessities set aside by whoever was using this place before them.
Bucky's somewhere on the other side of the unlocked door. This is only the second time they've met in a year. Even before Sokovia Steve's become too much of a recognizable public figure to be skulking around the less than savory parts of Europe looking for a missing person (too disliked in some parts). The funny part is, he hadn't been recognized when the former HYDRA/SHIELD/whatever they're calling themselves these days-agent tried to put a knife in his neck - they just thought he was from a rival agency trying to steal their already stolen tech. Sam's already left to meet Natasha and the clean-up crew they have to quietly sneak into the country. Someone has to safely extract what they found in the warehouse, while Steve is, well - ]
Woulda gotten myself stabbed months ago if I knew you'd turn up to watch.
[ Steve's talking to a half closed door, hoping the person on the other side didn't decide to take off. There's something like worn humor drifting into his tone. ]
It's not something Steve's ever thought on. There's a science behind his body that no one left alive can accurately predict. In a way, that's no so different from how things were before, back when his body was a obstacle instead of a tool.
He's standing in front of the dirty mirror in the bathroom. His jacket and shirt have been peeled off, set aside, and he's poking at a knife wound on his left shoulder from two hours ago that probably needs stitches. There's alcohol in the cabinets. Bandages. Necessities set aside by whoever was using this place before them.
Bucky's somewhere on the other side of the unlocked door. This is only the second time they've met in a year. Even before Sokovia Steve's become too much of a recognizable public figure to be skulking around the less than savory parts of Europe looking for a missing person (too disliked in some parts). The funny part is, he hadn't been recognized when the former HYDRA/SHIELD/whatever they're calling themselves these days-agent tried to put a knife in his neck - they just thought he was from a rival agency trying to steal their already stolen tech. Sam's already left to meet Natasha and the clean-up crew they have to quietly sneak into the country. Someone has to safely extract what they found in the warehouse, while Steve is, well - ]
Woulda gotten myself stabbed months ago if I knew you'd turn up to watch.
[ Steve's talking to a half closed door, hoping the person on the other side didn't decide to take off. There's something like worn humor drifting into his tone. ]
[ Bucky decides, at length, that he's probably just failed at being the skulking shadow that he'd been (ironically enough) infamous for. Or maybe it's because none of his targets had previously been Steve Rogers, who has the nose of a bloodhound and the tenacity of a pit bull.
Steve's talking to a half-closed door, and Bucky takes a few moments to weigh the pros of staying versus leaving, but the cloying, unpleasant coppery smell of blood keeps him there; an unwelcome familiarity settling deep in his bones. He remembers the times when Steve had been much smaller, a man who's made his living picking fights with assorted bullies; blood on his teeth and mud on his knees.
He remembers fighting alongside him, promising that it's the both of them, right to the end of the line.
He remembers many more things now, as well as the familiar anger that rises in the pit of his stomach on Steve's behalf. He'd been tracking him for weeks, always staying out of his way, where he thought he couldn't be seen.
Predictably, naturally, the scene of an injured Steve Rogers compels him closer, and he swallows hard, taking that step forward. He opens the door and meets his eyes through the mirror after a moment, dark and haunted but most importantly, just a touch exasperated.
He breaks that gaze to fish out the alcohol and the bandages (so maybe he's gotten himself familiarized with the bathroom, too. He'sEdward Cullen, but cooler Steve's favorite ghost, after all), setting them on the counter. ]
Would have left you there to prove a point. [ No, no he really wouldn't have. ] Don't move.
Steve's talking to a half-closed door, and Bucky takes a few moments to weigh the pros of staying versus leaving, but the cloying, unpleasant coppery smell of blood keeps him there; an unwelcome familiarity settling deep in his bones. He remembers the times when Steve had been much smaller, a man who's made his living picking fights with assorted bullies; blood on his teeth and mud on his knees.
He remembers fighting alongside him, promising that it's the both of them, right to the end of the line.
He remembers many more things now, as well as the familiar anger that rises in the pit of his stomach on Steve's behalf. He'd been tracking him for weeks, always staying out of his way, where he thought he couldn't be seen.
Predictably, naturally, the scene of an injured Steve Rogers compels him closer, and he swallows hard, taking that step forward. He opens the door and meets his eyes through the mirror after a moment, dark and haunted but most importantly, just a touch exasperated.
He breaks that gaze to fish out the alcohol and the bandages (so maybe he's gotten himself familiarized with the bathroom, too. He's
Would have left you there to prove a point. [ No, no he really wouldn't have. ] Don't move.
[ Things have shifted into a different sort of perspective, one Steve had never considered. One that seems impossible to believe but is nonetheless true.
He lets the heat of the shower soak into his skin, one minute slipping into five, and his forehead rests against slick tile, one arm braced over his head and the other idly grazing the plane of his stomach. It's a thoughtful motion, reliving the intensity and warmth of last night—Bucky's fingers, his mouth. The intimacy alone could have melted the mattress, and it's a new experience, one Steve revels in even as the physical evidence washes itself down the drain. They'd been careful, slow. First times that created others, and he shivers with it, breathes out and decides it isn't helping to do this to himself. There will be other opportunities, he's sure, and he leaves the safety of the bathroom a little more sensitive than he entered it. But dressed. That's the important thing.
Nothing except sweats and a thin tee though, the laziness of a morning spent recalling the details of mind-numbing sex and what's to come after. Steve's current objective is crawling back into bed with Bucky and curling up next to him to possibly sleep half the day away, but it's cut short by the soft rustle of material from the bedroom. Honestly, he doesn't think anything of it first and crosses into the room with damp hair and clothes clinging to him. There's a towel draped over his head, lightly dragging it through his hair. ]
So, I thought we could go out later. Maybe — [ Steve pulls the towel away and blinks in Bucky's direction. ] Oh, uh...
[ It's the only thing he manages, a breath more than words as blood rushes to two different places, some of it to the back of his neck and the rest completely south. Is there some etiquette about this when they're already doing things together? He doesn't know, Steve standing unmoving at the foot of the bed as he watches, and at some point, he thinks he forgets to breathe. ]
He lets the heat of the shower soak into his skin, one minute slipping into five, and his forehead rests against slick tile, one arm braced over his head and the other idly grazing the plane of his stomach. It's a thoughtful motion, reliving the intensity and warmth of last night—Bucky's fingers, his mouth. The intimacy alone could have melted the mattress, and it's a new experience, one Steve revels in even as the physical evidence washes itself down the drain. They'd been careful, slow. First times that created others, and he shivers with it, breathes out and decides it isn't helping to do this to himself. There will be other opportunities, he's sure, and he leaves the safety of the bathroom a little more sensitive than he entered it. But dressed. That's the important thing.
Nothing except sweats and a thin tee though, the laziness of a morning spent recalling the details of mind-numbing sex and what's to come after. Steve's current objective is crawling back into bed with Bucky and curling up next to him to possibly sleep half the day away, but it's cut short by the soft rustle of material from the bedroom. Honestly, he doesn't think anything of it first and crosses into the room with damp hair and clothes clinging to him. There's a towel draped over his head, lightly dragging it through his hair. ]
So, I thought we could go out later. Maybe — [ Steve pulls the towel away and blinks in Bucky's direction. ] Oh, uh...
[ It's the only thing he manages, a breath more than words as blood rushes to two different places, some of it to the back of his neck and the rest completely south. Is there some etiquette about this when they're already doing things together? He doesn't know, Steve standing unmoving at the foot of the bed as he watches, and at some point, he thinks he forgets to breathe. ]
[ Bucky's awake as soon as Steve leaves the bed to shower, despite Bucky's half-hearted protests to the contrary. It had taken awhile for them to get to this, all that's happened last night a climax (literally speaking) to the growing sexual tension that had blossomed between them, a climbing desire for more that Bucky hadn't known how to handle at first.
Then a kiss leads to more, and suddenly Bucky hadn't been able to get enough. It was a night of so many firsts, tangled with each other in this bed, drowning in the love and desire -- how they had lost so much time and they barely scratched the surface in making up for it. Steve had been magnificent, so very beautiful above and under him, the feel of his skin, the sweetness of his kisses.
Bucky can't help himself when he thinks about all that's transpired the night before, how they didn't stop at just once and kept going for hours on hours, until they're both pleasantly, contentedly worn out. He's... satisfied, happy, he thinks; it's a strange feeling to have, but he doesn't fight it, doesn't draw out reasons to take it away from himself.
They've crossed boundaries last night, coming to a brand new place that should be terrifying but isn't, and he takes it for what it is. He's known Steve his whole life and loved him for longer; there's nothing they can't do together, right? Steve leaves him alone with his thoughts, and it's not long after that his thoughts turn to their heated moments, the kisses and their bodies together, arousal sparking down his spine.
It's easy to reach down into his loose pants, wrapping his fingers around his half-hard cock as he allows the memories to flow through him, warm and sensuous. He should call Steve out here, ask him if he wants to do it again, but then bites his lip and shivers, thinking of how Steve's fingers feel wrapped around his dick.
Eyes lidding, he doesn't stop when he hears him come out, that familiar, gorgeous shape of him, and he exhales when he spots him stop before their bed, watching, and something in him shivers in pleasure, knowing he has the man's full attention. He smiles, continuing to pump at his cock in slow and steady strokes, legs spread in invitation.
Perhaps he'll really give him a show. ] I was thinking of you. [ He offers, and he looks up to meet his gaze, eyes clouded with want. ] You should come closer.
[ Come and watch. He wants to be touched, again and again. He wants to shut out the whole world and have Steve all to himself. ]
Then a kiss leads to more, and suddenly Bucky hadn't been able to get enough. It was a night of so many firsts, tangled with each other in this bed, drowning in the love and desire -- how they had lost so much time and they barely scratched the surface in making up for it. Steve had been magnificent, so very beautiful above and under him, the feel of his skin, the sweetness of his kisses.
Bucky can't help himself when he thinks about all that's transpired the night before, how they didn't stop at just once and kept going for hours on hours, until they're both pleasantly, contentedly worn out. He's... satisfied, happy, he thinks; it's a strange feeling to have, but he doesn't fight it, doesn't draw out reasons to take it away from himself.
They've crossed boundaries last night, coming to a brand new place that should be terrifying but isn't, and he takes it for what it is. He's known Steve his whole life and loved him for longer; there's nothing they can't do together, right? Steve leaves him alone with his thoughts, and it's not long after that his thoughts turn to their heated moments, the kisses and their bodies together, arousal sparking down his spine.
It's easy to reach down into his loose pants, wrapping his fingers around his half-hard cock as he allows the memories to flow through him, warm and sensuous. He should call Steve out here, ask him if he wants to do it again, but then bites his lip and shivers, thinking of how Steve's fingers feel wrapped around his dick.
Eyes lidding, he doesn't stop when he hears him come out, that familiar, gorgeous shape of him, and he exhales when he spots him stop before their bed, watching, and something in him shivers in pleasure, knowing he has the man's full attention. He smiles, continuing to pump at his cock in slow and steady strokes, legs spread in invitation.
Perhaps he'll really give him a show. ] I was thinking of you. [ He offers, and he looks up to meet his gaze, eyes clouded with want. ] You should come closer.
[ Come and watch. He wants to be touched, again and again. He wants to shut out the whole world and have Steve all to himself. ]
[ Inhumans are everywhere, more every day, and that alone is enough to keep SHIELD busy, but after Sokovia, the Director makes a priority of controlling the public perception of powered humans and, well, the resurfacing of the Winter Soldier threatens that. Worse is the government's pursuit of him, which endangers government officers and aggravates relations between superhumans and the government systems they have to operate within.
But the U.S. government doesn't have Daisy Johnson working for them, so within three hours of poring over surveillance footage, Flickr feeds, and tapping into deep web contacts, she gets a last known location. Her boots are on the ground an hour later in Colombo, Sri Lanka—a good place to hide, if you want to stay off the radar of the U.S. government. Back-up hangs back, surveilling her via microphone wired through her jacket, and they leave Daisy to make contact under the premise (her premise) that an inhuman is better equipped to handle superhuman business, and the Caterpillars aren't yet ready for this kind of combat.
She traces her way through a colorful slurry of advertisements on dirt-paved streets filled with scooters and pedestrians to the fire escape of a narrow alley, where she lifts her eyes to the third floor. ]
This guy really evaded all world governments for sixty years? For all this time? Am I the only one getting the impression that he maybe wants to be caught? [ She grabs the bottom rung of the fire escape and scales it in a short burst of energy, swinging up over the black rails on the third floor, where she peers in the dirty window. ]
[ They tell no one about it, this little arrangement that they have -- for one simple reason, it's none of their damn business what James Barnes does with Daisy Johnson in the privacy of his apartment, in the rare moments when the world doesn't need saving and overambitious overlords in the making decide to lie low and make the smart choice, for once.
It doesn't last long, that kind of peace, but it doesn't matter. She stays the night, and even when sleep's not a thing either of them actually achieved until the barest hint of the sun's rays threaten to touch the horizon -- blame the supersoldier serum in James' veins and the very pertinent fact that they hadn't seen each other in two months.
There is a story behind how they hooked up, the attraction that flared and burned and finally had a payoff; but it really is quite simple. They're both consenting adults, things finally got out of hand the sixth time they sparred with each other, and neither one's going to forget the mess they made of the training room in a hurry.
Bucky stirs to find her side of the bed empty, and only relaxes when he hears the shower running, the door left ajar so the familiar white noise is designed to wake him, perhaps. And wake he does, running a hand absently through his hair before he pads into the bathroom where she is, naked as the day he was born. He tries not to think about how rarely they wear clothes when they're alone; that is not a thing worth thinking too hard about, especially when there's a naked Daisy on the other side of the door. ]
Getting clean without me?
[ He's here to ruin all your plans, baby. ]
It doesn't last long, that kind of peace, but it doesn't matter. She stays the night, and even when sleep's not a thing either of them actually achieved until the barest hint of the sun's rays threaten to touch the horizon -- blame the supersoldier serum in James' veins and the very pertinent fact that they hadn't seen each other in two months.
There is a story behind how they hooked up, the attraction that flared and burned and finally had a payoff; but it really is quite simple. They're both consenting adults, things finally got out of hand the sixth time they sparred with each other, and neither one's going to forget the mess they made of the training room in a hurry.
Bucky stirs to find her side of the bed empty, and only relaxes when he hears the shower running, the door left ajar so the familiar white noise is designed to wake him, perhaps. And wake he does, running a hand absently through his hair before he pads into the bathroom where she is, naked as the day he was born. He tries not to think about how rarely they wear clothes when they're alone; that is not a thing worth thinking too hard about, especially when there's a naked Daisy on the other side of the door. ]
Getting clean without me?
[ He's here to ruin all your plans, baby. ]
[ They've been together for a little over two years before he asks her to move in with him. It's not a decision undertaken lightly, but it's been a long time coming. With Bucky finally acquitted of his crimes, he's no longer hunted down or wanted by the authorities -- at least, the ones that he can see.
Bucky Barnes is a free man, and he's not entirely sure what to do with himself. Aiding SHIELD is not an option; he carries too much away from it, and the knowledge that SHIELD and HYDRA are only two sides of the same coin doesn't dissipate. He doesn't tell Daisy that, not really; she knows it, and it's enough. He settles for helping her however he can, putting his skills to good use from time to time; but always with the only agenda of helping Daisy -- he can't give less of a fuck about SHIELD and what they need. He will not be a weapon for anyone anymore. Nonetheless, they've grown together, this strange relationship of theirs that they hadn't put a name to for the longest time, and Bucky can't quite imagine what the future would be like without her in it.
Which, naturally, is why he popped the question, hesitant and expecting the word 'no', even if his apartment's showing more and more hints of her presence -- the toothbrush, the towels, the bedsheets; a new laptop that Bucky uses from time to time to catch up with the world (he's not impressed by it, but there's nothing much he can do). Many more items that makes this apartment livable -- and not haunted by a particularly violent ghost. And of course, the question leads to them breaking in their very first night as official cohabitants, and there's something warm in Bucky's chest, the fragile but powerful knowledge that he's moving forward from his past with the woman he loves. He can deal with the ghosts and the guilt later; they're not going anywhere.
Her mouth is sweet underneath his, and he presses her down into his -- their bed now, his warm hand sliding up under her shirt to splay almost possessively over her stomach. ]
Need me to help you to move in?
Bucky Barnes is a free man, and he's not entirely sure what to do with himself. Aiding SHIELD is not an option; he carries too much away from it, and the knowledge that SHIELD and HYDRA are only two sides of the same coin doesn't dissipate. He doesn't tell Daisy that, not really; she knows it, and it's enough. He settles for helping her however he can, putting his skills to good use from time to time; but always with the only agenda of helping Daisy -- he can't give less of a fuck about SHIELD and what they need. He will not be a weapon for anyone anymore. Nonetheless, they've grown together, this strange relationship of theirs that they hadn't put a name to for the longest time, and Bucky can't quite imagine what the future would be like without her in it.
Which, naturally, is why he popped the question, hesitant and expecting the word 'no', even if his apartment's showing more and more hints of her presence -- the toothbrush, the towels, the bedsheets; a new laptop that Bucky uses from time to time to catch up with the world (he's not impressed by it, but there's nothing much he can do). Many more items that makes this apartment livable -- and not haunted by a particularly violent ghost. And of course, the question leads to them breaking in their very first night as official cohabitants, and there's something warm in Bucky's chest, the fragile but powerful knowledge that he's moving forward from his past with the woman he loves. He can deal with the ghosts and the guilt later; they're not going anywhere.
Her mouth is sweet underneath his, and he presses her down into his -- their bed now, his warm hand sliding up under her shirt to splay almost possessively over her stomach. ]
Need me to help you to move in?
[ heat waves have rolled into wakanda as of late, slow roils of dense air pressure and humidity that clear wakanda’s usual sheets of mist and dry out the green land incrementally over the course of weeks. this is the beginning of the dry season, so the heat is to be expected; the electric irrigation systems that remain inert over the rainy season will be jumpstarted soon, people put to harder work in the labs in order to supply the nation with what it needs to survive possible droughts--years’ worth of droughts, even. and there are more droughts in the world, every year.
t’challa is busy too, this time of year. he’s always busy now; his father and his court prepared him for this life the best they could and even then he finds that the work of a monarch can subsume him, and that his nights have shortened for more reasons than the summer solstice. and on top of all the responsibilities that any wakandan chieftain would face, t’challa has one that has proven more unique, more unusual than all the rest: bucky barnes, known to the world as the winter soldier.
at first it was only the decision to harbor him that brought t’challa difficulty. now, months into their--friendship, yes, t’challa can call it that, though with doubts of his own--he’s realized that taking him in was only the first step on a long road towards knowing him, a road laden with barbed wire and briars. and, too, temptation.
but he’s always erred on the side of recklessness. the time for self-flagellation can come later, when his face isn’t buried in the salt-sweetness of the nape of bucky’s neck, when he isn’t sinking his teeth into the skin there for the sole pleasure of leaving marks. they’re in one of the royal courtyards, away from seeking eyes. t’challa has one paw of a hand spread over bucky’s side, beneath his shirt, feeling over skin and scars; the other is down bucky’s trousers, fisting his cock with slow long strokes that roll like the hot air breezes that slink in from over the mountains, too much, too tight, sweltering.
in some ways touching him feels like the forfeiture of duty. in the rest it feels new, and needed--like t’challa too has been in drought without realizing it, and every sound bucky makes under his hands is like a crack of ice in summer thaw. ]
t’challa is busy too, this time of year. he’s always busy now; his father and his court prepared him for this life the best they could and even then he finds that the work of a monarch can subsume him, and that his nights have shortened for more reasons than the summer solstice. and on top of all the responsibilities that any wakandan chieftain would face, t’challa has one that has proven more unique, more unusual than all the rest: bucky barnes, known to the world as the winter soldier.
at first it was only the decision to harbor him that brought t’challa difficulty. now, months into their--friendship, yes, t’challa can call it that, though with doubts of his own--he’s realized that taking him in was only the first step on a long road towards knowing him, a road laden with barbed wire and briars. and, too, temptation.
but he’s always erred on the side of recklessness. the time for self-flagellation can come later, when his face isn’t buried in the salt-sweetness of the nape of bucky’s neck, when he isn’t sinking his teeth into the skin there for the sole pleasure of leaving marks. they’re in one of the royal courtyards, away from seeking eyes. t’challa has one paw of a hand spread over bucky’s side, beneath his shirt, feeling over skin and scars; the other is down bucky’s trousers, fisting his cock with slow long strokes that roll like the hot air breezes that slink in from over the mountains, too much, too tight, sweltering.
in some ways touching him feels like the forfeiture of duty. in the rest it feels new, and needed--like t’challa too has been in drought without realizing it, and every sound bucky makes under his hands is like a crack of ice in summer thaw. ]
[ The question of the hour is: is it forfeiture of duty if Bucky is the one who fuels the flames, fanning temptation every step of the way when he realised what crackled between them wasn't the dying embers of profound misunderstanding? There is duty and there is this, Bucky pressing against the king's questing hands, burning under his skin as passion awakens, coming to life under T'challa's sensuous attentions. Even in this there is a potent sense of freedom; T'challa is a choice that he makes, for better or worse. Drawing him into the gardens had an accident, but letting T'challa taste the tangy sweet flavor of ripe plums on his tongue had been purely by design.
Bucky's still not sure if he even deserves T'challa's attentions beyond the courtesies of a royal host, and perhaps a better man than he would might have chosen another path, but Bucky's not a good man, and T'challa's become the one bright spark in his bleak horizon that he wants closer in every way -- even that talented hand on his cock isn't enough, no, he's thirsted for too long and so has the king, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks fairytales don't begin like this. Then again, nothing about what they are is a fairytale, and he gives of himself to the king, watering the drought with his own hunger and need, soft, muffled sounds of appreciation and yearning coloring half-murmured words.
He will wear the mark T'challa leaves for hours, the bite sitting under the white cloth of his shirt; but for now they're both wearing too much, and his fingers come to fumble at the other man's well-pressed trousers, his heart pounding in his chest. He has never felt more alive, and the feeling of being needed this way by him is intoxicating, invigorating. He pulls him closer, pressing himself up against the stone wall. ]
Off. [ He tells him, his words rough and just as needy, green eyes dark and burning with desire. He slips his hand, warm and human, into his trousers then, palming his cock and easing it out, bringing them both together with a quiet little moan reserved for the king's ears only. ] You're wearing too damn much.
[ Nevermind that no one else would ever dare to speak to the king of Wakanda like this. ]
Bucky's still not sure if he even deserves T'challa's attentions beyond the courtesies of a royal host, and perhaps a better man than he would might have chosen another path, but Bucky's not a good man, and T'challa's become the one bright spark in his bleak horizon that he wants closer in every way -- even that talented hand on his cock isn't enough, no, he's thirsted for too long and so has the king, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks fairytales don't begin like this. Then again, nothing about what they are is a fairytale, and he gives of himself to the king, watering the drought with his own hunger and need, soft, muffled sounds of appreciation and yearning coloring half-murmured words.
He will wear the mark T'challa leaves for hours, the bite sitting under the white cloth of his shirt; but for now they're both wearing too much, and his fingers come to fumble at the other man's well-pressed trousers, his heart pounding in his chest. He has never felt more alive, and the feeling of being needed this way by him is intoxicating, invigorating. He pulls him closer, pressing himself up against the stone wall. ]
Off. [ He tells him, his words rough and just as needy, green eyes dark and burning with desire. He slips his hand, warm and human, into his trousers then, palming his cock and easing it out, bringing them both together with a quiet little moan reserved for the king's ears only. ] You're wearing too damn much.
[ Nevermind that no one else would ever dare to speak to the king of Wakanda like this. ]
ok but buck with a therapy dog
[ Bucky counts the days he's spent in Wakanda, totalling the days to weeks and months as a slave to the king himself, even if he's been treated as anything but, which is baffling, unsettling, and frustrating all at once.
All his life he had been fed stories of Wakanda's opulence, their massive control over the world's most valuable metal -- the one thing that stood in the way of Hydra's conquests. All his life he had been told that the Great Kings of Wakanda stood in the way of the progress Hydra promised the other lesser kingdoms of the world.
They were at war for all of his life, for as long as he remembers. Bucky remembers the loss of sons and fathers, sisters and mothers disappearing -- he was told that Wakanda demanded tribute (but rumors have been swirling about that it was nothing more than Hydra's fabrications; Bucky refuses to believe it). And so he had been sent here, a slave meant for the great king T'Challa's use and consumption, a strapping, handsome young man that King Alexander had surmised had been to his tastes.
How wrong they were. The king had barely given Bucky a second glance when he was offered to him, dressed in a sensuous combination of silks and gilded ropes -- designed to tease and titillate; and instead of claiming Bucky or throwing him into slave quarters had actually given him a room to stay in. Bucky had been confused and caught off guard, fully prepared to hate everything that Wakanda was and what it stood for -- he wasn't ready to know about how wrong he was.
But the weeks go by, and Bucky manages to secure more of the elusive King's attention; that he was not the ruthless, bloodthirsty megalomaniac Bucky had assumed him to be. He's quiet, firm and gently despite the fierce warrior's soul, and in him burned something that Bucky had never seen before and could never forget, something that begins to haunt his dreams and waking hours, a yearning that blossoms the more he finds himself in T'Challa's company, drawn to his sharp wit and even sharper smile, clever eyes and incredible charm.
He finds himself counting down to the times he gets to see him, and despite himself opens up and becomes more genuine, unable to help himself.
Which is why Bucky finds himself here today in the royal baths, having boldly made arrangements with the head of the servants to take their place to serve him, closing the distance in the glittering pool of clear spring water as he sponges the monarch off, watching droplets roll off an exquisitely chiseled, muscular chest and downwards.
Bucky is here on a mission, but for the life of him he doesn't remember what it is now. His own hair is damp from the humidity, and he swallows hard as he continues to wash him, his gaze admiring on the king's body. ]
This was my idea. [ He says quietly, looking back at him under long, dark lashes. He's very sure most slaves won't take it upon themselves to switch up duties -- but Bucky is not most slaves. ] Don't punish the others.
All his life he had been fed stories of Wakanda's opulence, their massive control over the world's most valuable metal -- the one thing that stood in the way of Hydra's conquests. All his life he had been told that the Great Kings of Wakanda stood in the way of the progress Hydra promised the other lesser kingdoms of the world.
They were at war for all of his life, for as long as he remembers. Bucky remembers the loss of sons and fathers, sisters and mothers disappearing -- he was told that Wakanda demanded tribute (but rumors have been swirling about that it was nothing more than Hydra's fabrications; Bucky refuses to believe it). And so he had been sent here, a slave meant for the great king T'Challa's use and consumption, a strapping, handsome young man that King Alexander had surmised had been to his tastes.
How wrong they were. The king had barely given Bucky a second glance when he was offered to him, dressed in a sensuous combination of silks and gilded ropes -- designed to tease and titillate; and instead of claiming Bucky or throwing him into slave quarters had actually given him a room to stay in. Bucky had been confused and caught off guard, fully prepared to hate everything that Wakanda was and what it stood for -- he wasn't ready to know about how wrong he was.
But the weeks go by, and Bucky manages to secure more of the elusive King's attention; that he was not the ruthless, bloodthirsty megalomaniac Bucky had assumed him to be. He's quiet, firm and gently despite the fierce warrior's soul, and in him burned something that Bucky had never seen before and could never forget, something that begins to haunt his dreams and waking hours, a yearning that blossoms the more he finds himself in T'Challa's company, drawn to his sharp wit and even sharper smile, clever eyes and incredible charm.
He finds himself counting down to the times he gets to see him, and despite himself opens up and becomes more genuine, unable to help himself.
Which is why Bucky finds himself here today in the royal baths, having boldly made arrangements with the head of the servants to take their place to serve him, closing the distance in the glittering pool of clear spring water as he sponges the monarch off, watching droplets roll off an exquisitely chiseled, muscular chest and downwards.
Bucky is here on a mission, but for the life of him he doesn't remember what it is now. His own hair is damp from the humidity, and he swallows hard as he continues to wash him, his gaze admiring on the king's body. ]
This was my idea. [ He says quietly, looking back at him under long, dark lashes. He's very sure most slaves won't take it upon themselves to switch up duties -- but Bucky is not most slaves. ] Don't punish the others.
[ Alva tells him the night before that he shouldn't move around so much if it hurts to breathe, but he has people to see, places to go, and he's tired of laying on one side or the other for relief. Standing is awful too and walking even worse, but he makes his way down to another deck and knocks roughly against it with the side of his fist, shoulders heaving, widening slightly, fitting into where they ought to when his ribcage expands so much. He looks Bucky in the eye when he opens the door and balks for a total of five seconds. He still gives Val needle-like pinpricks down his spine, chilled.
The likeness is still stupid uncanny, but Val has learned the best way to tell is always through the eyes--no split color, no buckling in the spine, just a give from skin to metal on the shoulder where port and skin meet and silent wildness in the back of his eyes that makes Val want to climb into his lap and press thumbs into the little space between his temples to stroke it away like a great beast.
(You're just like me, Val reveals to him in close confidence, their knees tangled under the table in the middle of the mess late in the evening. There's no one there, just the two of them, and Val has brought apples with their skin peeled off. See? he says again, pulling down the low neck of his sweater so he can see the seam along his chest, the peek of where skin becomes glass, where glass begets meat, but not too much because they're eating after all. Just enough. Do you want the skin? he asks, waving the small knife around gently at a meticulous, dark red ribbon of apple skin coiled together. I can't have it.)
Valarie stands at the door with his hands in front of him, clasped where the glass stops and breathing set a bit more calmly as his eyes flick downwards and then up again. His stomach tightens brutally, like a vice and his hearts respond in kind, thudding hard, bruising. He swallows tightly.
"You're ready for tomorrow, right?"
"It's a day that ends in "y" isn't it?"
"I won't let anything happen to you. You'll go to sleep, wake up ten times better."
"Ten times emptier. I don't think that's better. Not worse, but not better. Don't make promises you can't keep."
It's why he's here tonight. ]
Can I stay with you a bit? I can't... sleep. Were you asleep? [ A beat. ] I can go. Away. If you want.
Edited 2016-06-12 11:59 (UTC)
[ Val finds his way to Bucky's door, all hollow bones and too many hearts, secrets whispered through the offering of fruit, and the cloying sweet scent of apples make his stomach churn, red strips reminding him of the inside out of an MI6 agent he intercepted in Minsk. It had all been done with a knife, too, and once you get the hang of it it's very easy to make a man scream; easier still to be damn good at it.
Val tells him they're not so different, this little bird with his glass chest that Bucky wants to reach out to touch. Those eyes, bright and curious -- watching him like he's the only person in the world worth looking at; and Bucky doesn't know how to begin to tell him how wrong he is in so many little ways. But he's right, a small, small voice whispers, and he pretends he doesn't hear. He refuses the apples, but keeps his knees tangled with Val's anyway and keeps thinking of Minsk, the body he leaves abandoned and disavowed by the country he'd ultimately betrayed.
(There's a price for everything; you're either the apple, or the knife.)
Tonight, Val is different. Bucky is awake tonight the way he is most nights (he's slept enough for the past seventy years), and Val comes to him like he's the loneliest soul in the world, cold and bereft. He can hear it almost, those hearts a symphony, little metronomes that give away Val's distress.
This is what drowning on dry land must look like. ]
I don't sleep. [ He holds open the door, steps aside. He's in a plain white wifebeater and sweatpants, the metal of his arm gleaming dully in what little light there is in the ship's corridor. The large windows of his room look out into the rest of the universe, but he's certain Val's not here for the view. ] Come in. What's wrong?
Val tells him they're not so different, this little bird with his glass chest that Bucky wants to reach out to touch. Those eyes, bright and curious -- watching him like he's the only person in the world worth looking at; and Bucky doesn't know how to begin to tell him how wrong he is in so many little ways. But he's right, a small, small voice whispers, and he pretends he doesn't hear. He refuses the apples, but keeps his knees tangled with Val's anyway and keeps thinking of Minsk, the body he leaves abandoned and disavowed by the country he'd ultimately betrayed.
(There's a price for everything; you're either the apple, or the knife.)
Tonight, Val is different. Bucky is awake tonight the way he is most nights (he's slept enough for the past seventy years), and Val comes to him like he's the loneliest soul in the world, cold and bereft. He can hear it almost, those hearts a symphony, little metronomes that give away Val's distress.
This is what drowning on dry land must look like. ]
I don't sleep. [ He holds open the door, steps aside. He's in a plain white wifebeater and sweatpants, the metal of his arm gleaming dully in what little light there is in the ship's corridor. The large windows of his room look out into the rest of the universe, but he's certain Val's not here for the view. ] Come in. What's wrong?
[ The sudden absence of music clues him in that Bucky is about ready to leave. Camped out by the register in a chair that's not really meant for the front of the shop, Steve keeps busy with his smart phone. He's blown through all the respectable news outlets, so now he's left to shamefully pick through sensational media, click-bait, and meaningless quizzes.
The bakery's already closed and locked, so no one will be coming in to cause them to be any later coming home. Even still, Steve wishes they were already back in their apartment, DVR on and shoes off. Sitting on a hard chair with no cushion to speak of isn't how he wants to keep spending his Tuesday evening. ]
The bakery's already closed and locked, so no one will be coming in to cause them to be any later coming home. Even still, Steve wishes they were already back in their apartment, DVR on and shoes off. Sitting on a hard chair with no cushion to speak of isn't how he wants to keep spending his Tuesday evening. ]
[ It's been a long day, and Bucky's looking forward to going home and having Steve all to himself; Steve, who seems perfectly content perching on a chair with his eyes glued to the screen. The bakery's spotless, thanks to Bucky's relentless drive for cleanliness, and when he's finished he leans over to press a kiss to Steve's forehead. ]
C'mon, let's go. We're done here.
C'mon, let's go. We're done here.
[ some nights, it's just easier to stay. either andyr's feeling too sore or too sleepy to leave, or one of them doesn't feel like sleeping in an otherwise empty bed. they don't typically comment much on it (as if they comment much on any part of whatever this is between them), just slouch together, tangle legs and wrap arms, and doze off. this, however, is the first time andyr's woken to bucky shaking.
it was bound to happen with one of them, sooner or later, with the horrors both of them carry around in their heads. if not bucky, then andyr. thus, he knows exactly what this is the moment his eyes blink open to bucky's trembling back, all curled up and looking so, so small for a man that's so much larger than life. that resonating empathy has him sitting up in bed immediately, putting arms around bucky's sides to circle around his front, as he tugs him up, to lay his back against Andyr's. ]
Bucky-- it's me, it's Andyr. [ he knows how these episodes work - it isn't just flashbacks or resurgence of irrational fear. you're literally in that moment again, in that place, and just seeing the wall in front of you as what it is is a task that takes calming and concentration, two things very hard to find when you're losing it. bucky's arm's aren't restrained, he's only being softly held to Andyr's chest, as he lifts a hand to pet his hand back from his face, whispering reassurances as he kisses his temple, the side of his head. ] Shhh, you're okay, you're safe, I'm here.
[ motherly kind of condolences, fatherly perhaps, but that's what andyr remembers of comfort. it's what he finds himself wishing for, at his lowest. ]
You're on the Moira. No one's gonna touch you, Buck, I won't let them, I swear. [ he reminds him - you are here, you are on this ship, those horrors and those people are far away. it's only in your mind. and there's no exaggerating in the statement - andyr would wreck this entire ship to keep something like that from happening to bucky again. some costs are not worth any end to be met. ] Shhh, just breathe, that's all you need to worry about right now.
[ slowing his inhales and exhales, andyr exaggerates them, so bucky can feel his chest rise and fall steadily. measured and even, calm. ]
You're okay, it's just us here. Be with me here.
it was bound to happen with one of them, sooner or later, with the horrors both of them carry around in their heads. if not bucky, then andyr. thus, he knows exactly what this is the moment his eyes blink open to bucky's trembling back, all curled up and looking so, so small for a man that's so much larger than life. that resonating empathy has him sitting up in bed immediately, putting arms around bucky's sides to circle around his front, as he tugs him up, to lay his back against Andyr's. ]
Bucky-- it's me, it's Andyr. [ he knows how these episodes work - it isn't just flashbacks or resurgence of irrational fear. you're literally in that moment again, in that place, and just seeing the wall in front of you as what it is is a task that takes calming and concentration, two things very hard to find when you're losing it. bucky's arm's aren't restrained, he's only being softly held to Andyr's chest, as he lifts a hand to pet his hand back from his face, whispering reassurances as he kisses his temple, the side of his head. ] Shhh, you're okay, you're safe, I'm here.
[ motherly kind of condolences, fatherly perhaps, but that's what andyr remembers of comfort. it's what he finds himself wishing for, at his lowest. ]
You're on the Moira. No one's gonna touch you, Buck, I won't let them, I swear. [ he reminds him - you are here, you are on this ship, those horrors and those people are far away. it's only in your mind. and there's no exaggerating in the statement - andyr would wreck this entire ship to keep something like that from happening to bucky again. some costs are not worth any end to be met. ] Shhh, just breathe, that's all you need to worry about right now.
[ slowing his inhales and exhales, andyr exaggerates them, so bucky can feel his chest rise and fall steadily. measured and even, calm. ]
You're okay, it's just us here. Be with me here.
[ The Moira.
The Moira, of course. Bucky stops thrashing and squirming, eyes wide as he takes in unfamiliar surroundings, but drawn to the welcome cadence of Andyr's voice, the familiar smoothness that has always cut through his darkest nightmares, the most harrowing dreams. He settles down in his arms, breathing hard and inches away from a panic attack before he forces himself to listen to that voice, to stay calm.
Andyr's arms are wrapped around him, but they're for comfort, not restraint, and his blood pounds in his ears with every second that he registers that, knowing that Andyr is trusted, that he's here to help, and that vivid hallucination had only been a nightmare. After all, how can there be an empty highway here, with bloodied, skinless corpses gathered around to stare right at him, no eyelids to shield those eyeballs.
They were victims, all of them, their skulls crushed in various degrees; how he had screamed so loudly in his head and no one listened. He grits his teeth, pressing back against him and trying again, trying to breathe deep and slow as he trembles in Andyr's arms, losing himself to the vivid memory again before hauling himself back.
No, Andyr is here. It will all be fine -- after all, he hadn't killed Andyr, right? ]
You should. [ He says quietly, pointlessly, despair creeping into his voice. ] It'll only be fair. [ His words are dazed, semi-lucid. ] I'm the monster under their beds.
The Moira, of course. Bucky stops thrashing and squirming, eyes wide as he takes in unfamiliar surroundings, but drawn to the welcome cadence of Andyr's voice, the familiar smoothness that has always cut through his darkest nightmares, the most harrowing dreams. He settles down in his arms, breathing hard and inches away from a panic attack before he forces himself to listen to that voice, to stay calm.
Andyr's arms are wrapped around him, but they're for comfort, not restraint, and his blood pounds in his ears with every second that he registers that, knowing that Andyr is trusted, that he's here to help, and that vivid hallucination had only been a nightmare. After all, how can there be an empty highway here, with bloodied, skinless corpses gathered around to stare right at him, no eyelids to shield those eyeballs.
They were victims, all of them, their skulls crushed in various degrees; how he had screamed so loudly in his head and no one listened. He grits his teeth, pressing back against him and trying again, trying to breathe deep and slow as he trembles in Andyr's arms, losing himself to the vivid memory again before hauling himself back.
No, Andyr is here. It will all be fine -- after all, he hadn't killed Andyr, right? ]
You should. [ He says quietly, pointlessly, despair creeping into his voice. ] It'll only be fair. [ His words are dazed, semi-lucid. ] I'm the monster under their beds.
[ andyr snoops. it's just a fact of life, he can't keep his hands to himself. usually, it doesn't turn out too disastrous, outside of some annoyance and berating, or anger, if he digs up something a bit too personal. but nothing dangerous has come from it yet.
when his hands touched the red journal, with the star on the cover, looking ancient and decrepit, found stuffed away somewhere, andyr hadn't thought it was anything more than a diary. another one of bucky's memory books, and opened it up to peek inside. he'd be annoyed, yes, but bucky's also come to learn this about him. it shouldn't be a surprise. however, when he flips it open it looks like nothing but gibberish. all weird symbols and mashed up letters he can't figure. it takes a moment of flipping it around to realize it's cryllic - russian. ]
The hell? When'd you start writing these in Russian? [ Andyr pipes up from across the room, still flipping through the book. Eventually, he finds some romanized words, tilting his head. they're still absurd looking. ]
Zay... Zel? Zhelan...
[ "Zhelaniye", is that first word. Longing.
Thankfully, Andyr's Russian pronunciation is terrible. ]
when his hands touched the red journal, with the star on the cover, looking ancient and decrepit, found stuffed away somewhere, andyr hadn't thought it was anything more than a diary. another one of bucky's memory books, and opened it up to peek inside. he'd be annoyed, yes, but bucky's also come to learn this about him. it shouldn't be a surprise. however, when he flips it open it looks like nothing but gibberish. all weird symbols and mashed up letters he can't figure. it takes a moment of flipping it around to realize it's cryllic - russian. ]
The hell? When'd you start writing these in Russian? [ Andyr pipes up from across the room, still flipping through the book. Eventually, he finds some romanized words, tilting his head. they're still absurd looking. ]
Zay... Zel? Zhelan...
[ "Zhelaniye", is that first word. Longing.
Thankfully, Andyr's Russian pronunciation is terrible. ]
[ Andyr snoops, but Bucky is used to it. The younger man is naturally inquisitive, prying and poking into things with all the curiosity of a six year old. But he has never meant harm by it; manipulation is not written in his genes.
Bucky still keeps the really important things from him, of course -- and he knows that Andyr doesn't much mind. But then one day he slips up, the old, battered book left outside accidentally.
An unacceptable turn of events, and his blood runs even colder when he hears the first word out of Andyr's mouth, the word alien on his tongue. Bucky is by his side in a heartbeat, horror gripping in his chest as he tears the book from his hands and sends it flying. ]
No. No. Don't do that. [ His words are brittle, but he doesn't see Andyr. He sees Vasily, a whole host of stony faces through the years, and he knows a world of pain that sickens him. Bucky looks both terrified and angry, shaking with both -- eyes distant. No. Never again. ]
Bucky still keeps the really important things from him, of course -- and he knows that Andyr doesn't much mind. But then one day he slips up, the old, battered book left outside accidentally.
An unacceptable turn of events, and his blood runs even colder when he hears the first word out of Andyr's mouth, the word alien on his tongue. Bucky is by his side in a heartbeat, horror gripping in his chest as he tears the book from his hands and sends it flying. ]
No. No. Don't do that. [ His words are brittle, but he doesn't see Andyr. He sees Vasily, a whole host of stony faces through the years, and he knows a world of pain that sickens him. Bucky looks both terrified and angry, shaking with both -- eyes distant. No. Never again. ]
Edited 2016-08-12 05:26 (UTC)
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