Work Text:
BB: you think I had anything to do with that stuff with the towers?
BB: In 2001?
BB: I did Kennedy, right?
BB: Steve
Those messages are ten minutes old. Steve steps around a puddle and continues walking, scrolling down to the text that just came in.
BB: I want to try something. Pick up tomato ketchup and a Hershey’s bar for me?
His thumb hovers over the text input field for a moment in search of an answer before he shoves the cellular phone back in the front of his rain jacket.
Bucky's messages to him are all like that. The whole fucking three-month-long text chain is a mess of non sequiturs, questions that Steve is terrified of knowing the answers to, and Bucky's nonsensical cravings.
He’s too distracted by Bucky this morning. Last night he had a completely new kind of request. He came to Steve and begged “Just… please, Steve- let me-” while frantically indicating Steve’s bedroom closet.
Every word he’d read in the Winter Soldier ran through his mind while he’d tried to make a decision. Cells, and cryotubes, and places where they’d stored Bucky like a thing. That’s what closets are for, right? Storing his things?
But Bucky had looked so genuine and even… lucid, as he begged. So Steve had pulled out the excess crap Tony and the others had piled on him, like clutter could make up for 70 years of lost time, and Bucky had practically bolted inside.
“Shut the door?”
As he did, Steve caught a glimpse of every muscle in Bucky's body relaxing for the first time in weeks- no, months. Bucky didn't just want to be let in. He wanted to stay there.
Steve had found a book and started reading it aloud. By the time Bucky emerged, he had looked like- well not… entirely together, but less fractured, like jagged pieces of pain packed back together into a human form.
Steve narrowly avoids a taxi as he crosses the street and dodges a cyclist who seems to come out of nowhere. He ignores the shouts of outrage in his wake and thinks to himself: some things about this city never change.
But most of his mind is still stuck on Bucky. Steve doesn’t want to be overbearing, he wants Bucky to be autonomous. They're friends, after all - just friends - and while Steve has been pining for him since, well… ever, he firmly believes that means letting Bucky open up about his business at his own pace. But, they live together in the cozy quarters of Steve's one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. So close, in fact, that Steve has far less opportunity to jerk off than usual because Bucky’s always just right there. Steve’s superpowered libido has a hard time coping, and makes up for lost time in his dreams. But that’s a different problem he has related to Bucky.
Even with Bucky's blasé retorts and cocky dismissals that he's a-okay, Steve can’t help but notice that Bucky is leagues away from his best. He’s lost his Winter Soldier grace, careening into door frames and the hallway walls like a drunk. He loses track of his train of thought mid-conversation, occasionally snapping at Steve and then reverting to tense silence for days. He doesn’t show much reaction when Steve turns down the sleeper sofa in the main room for him, when Steve leaves, or comes back, or… when anything happens, really. He's even got a look haunting his eyes that Steve knows all too well. He feels it after every time he arrives too late to a disaster and people come up and thank Captain America anyway, leaving Steve Roger’s expression stuck like that all night: disoriented, uncomfortable, and defeated.
Steve has caught Bucky pretending to read during long afternoons, but with each passing day the bookmark doesn’t move and with each minute the pages don’t turn. Bucky will click through channels on the tube, watching something chaotic with the sound off and captions on, or pretending to watch the shopping channels. The next morning he’ll find Bucky sitting in the same spot he was when Steve went to bed, only with a deeper frown and eyes more bloodshot than the day before. At least a handful of times Steve has gone to the kitchen in the dead of night for a glass water or to walk off a night terror and Bucky will be lying there on the sleeper sofa, feigning sleep but with his eyes open wide and glued to the ceiling.
The problem, Steve thinks as he makes his way down Park Avenue, is that Bucky doesn’t sleep at all. Did HYDRA even allow him to sleep? As far as Steve can tell, Bucky hasn't closed his eyes for more than a few minutes total since he came in from the cold. He has no idea what will help Bucky’s super-powered version of insomnia.
Astonished onlookers love to romanticize the Avengers’ amazing powers. It never occurs to them that enhanced beings might also have grotesquely exaggerated versions of normal human problems. What’s three months, or God forbid, seventy years of sleep loss to a supersoldier?
The closest thing Steve has for a baseline is himself, and his own restless nights the past several weeks have caused bags to form under his eyes. Still, waking from three nightmares a week featuring the Winter Soldier coming to kill him or offering to sexually service him is significaly many more hours of sleep compared to Bucky's zero. He knows they can't go without sleep forever and is genuinely afraid of when rock bottom happens: when Bucky's body gives in to what it physically needs that his mind won't let him have.
The light goes green. A woman is struggling with a stroller on the other side of the road, and he ducks to the side quickly to lift the wheels for her, not even looking when she gives him a smile and a quick word of thanks.
The CVS is filled with customers and the pharmacy tucked in the back has a line when he gets there. Steve grabs a couple chocolate bars and stands at the back and waits, dodging glances and trying to be inconspicuous. He thinks maybe the world-weariness and fraught twitchiness he’s trying to cover helps in that department. No one is expecting Captain America to be jumpy and fidgety.
Steve picks up his antidepressants, waiving his right to sue for a dosage that technically counts as overdosing. On his way back to the apartment, he stops in another grocer and shells out a little extra for ketchup in a glass bottle. It’s the little things. He keeps trying… for the little things.
~~
Today, like most days, after they get ready, Bucky has a slew of doctors’ appointments. Steve is cooking up breakfast for the both of them when Bucky returns from the bathroom, blinking at the combination of chocolate and ketchup on the kitchen table.
“The hell you want those for?” Bucky asks, confused.
Even though it’s sad, Steve reminds himself that only a few months ago Bucky didn’t know his own name.
"Who knows." Steve can’t help but goddamn laugh, measuring warm milk into two mugs. Bucky takes the offered cup, leaning over to receive it in his right hand.
“How'd you sleep?”
Steve cuts off the heat and Bucky frowns and sips the milk. “As well as one would expect, all things considered.”
"So, not at all?" Steve fishes in a tone meant to sound teasing, but coming off too strained even to his own ears.
“Say, you got a cryo tube around here? I’m not exactly supposed to be out for more than a week,” Bucky jokes.
Steve’s been working on minimizing his reactions to Bucky’s decades of torture, at least when Bucky’s right in front of him. But there’s no way he can fully hide how his throat tightens up, and he has to take a measured breath.
“Can I get you anything else short of that?” Steve asks, flicking the ketchup bottle as he takes the seat across from him.
“Not a damn thing.”
The humor is gone from Bucky's voice. He’s not stupid; he’s sleep-deprived, confused, and suffering from amnesia, and now he’s irritable, but he’s not stupid. He must have known this intervention was coming for a while.
"They make meds for sleep now. Your doc might know.” He sighs when Bucky rolls his eyes.
"I don’t want more doctors messing around in my head. Or people telling me how to handle things."
“There must be something."
“Oh, fuck off. You're not ready to take a stroll through what's up here. You're gonna tell me I need to deal with my sleep problems when you're not doing shit about your own?"
It’s the most he’s said in one burst in a week, almost its own victory even though Steve pissed him off. Bucky remembers that Steve can be a bit of a pushy hypocrite, so that’s good. “Didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, sorry, don’t know why I--” Bucky puts his face in his hands. “Look, Steve. I’ll think about it, okay?”
Steve nods and they lapse into silence again.
~~
Steve’s sleeping soundly that night when a too-close sound sends him immediately into full alertness. A dark figure leans towards him, hair dangling down. “Bucky? What--”
“You need to leave.” Bucky stares straight at him. “There’s someone here.”
“Oh God.” Steve grabs for his shield, but Bucky puts a Glock in his hand instead and whispers, “Stay right here, ok?”
Bucky turns towards the wall. His voice shakes. “They’re here for me. They’ll take you, too. You need to leave.”
“Jesus Christ. No one’s going anywhere, except some HYDRA goons to the trauma ward. I’ll be right back.”
"No! Send me. Please, Steve. Don't let them get you."
Despite his words, Bucky is rooted to the spot. Steve puts his back to Bucky and heads out to sweep the dark hallway outside his bedroom, then Bucky’s area of the living room, the bathroom and another hallway, then the kitchen. He triple-checks every possible entrance in their soundproof apartment... there’s no one, and no sign of anything out of place whatsoever. His alarm systems haven’t been tripped and all the windows remain sealed.
Dumbfounded, Steve returns to his bedroom to tell Bucky that he’s imagining things, or ask exactly what he heard, but instead he finds Bucky out in the hallway. Where only minutes ago Bucky was intensely alert, now he’s drifting off, leaning heavily on the wall and starting to slump down. Steve moves to check his vitals but Bucky waves him off and yawns. Steve rules out the extremes; he can smell poisons and no one has been here to tamper with anything.
It’s got to be that Bucky’s been sleepwalking, which means at least he’s sleeping for the first time. Exasperated but fond, Steve half-carries, half-shoves him back to the bedroom, tucks him in, and tells him to stay there. He does two more perimeter checks to be absolutely sure.
The conversation that he'll have to have with Bucky tomorrow makes him anxious. He knows that if he tries to sleep now, odds are that he'll wake up shamefully aroused from another Winter Soldier dream based on tonight's events and the horrifyingly detailed files HYDRA kept on Bucky. He tells himself now is an ideal time to read newspapers on his tablet, and he takes up Bucky's usual residence on the living room sofa.
Steve keeps the gun with him and doesn’t sleep.
~~
That morning, Bucky doesn’t emerge from the bedroom at all. Steve hears the rhythmic breathing of a man passed out, but there are no sounds of tossing or turning at all. Morning turns to afternoon and Bucky’s still asleep, snoring a little. It’s a minor miracle, to say the least. Steve cancels several appointments and busies himself tidying up and puttering around.
Bucky finally emerges, stretching his arms behind his back, clothes and hair adorably rumpled. He doesn’t smile these days but now his face almost looks like it could. Steve takes in the sheet creases on Bucky’s cheeks, and holds back a soft smile.
“Hey. Thanks for the change of scenery.” Bucky looks a little sheepish, glancing towards the window to calculate the sun’s angle on the sill. “Guess it’s about 2?”
“Yeah, almost 2:30.” Steve lets the gentle smile slowly spread out; how could he not? “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I finally slept for the first time in decades. Feels kinda good.” He smooths out his hair, brushing it a little with his fingers.
“Yeah, better fix that, looks like a rat’s nest. But it’s a good look for the likes of you.”
“The rat sends his thanks,” Bucky says behind a yawn. “Could get used to a night’s sleep.”
He settles into the couch and leans back. Steve doesn’t ask, and to his surprise Bucky brings up what he’s been wondering. “I took your advice, y’know. Talked to the shrink.”
“Really? Bucky, that’s great.”
“Three months of hell and all it took was a talk and a pill.” He shrugs both shoulders up and turns it into a neck stretch that looks downright satisfying. "I'm sorry about yesterday, Steve."
Steve stops on the pillow he's straightening. "Yesterday?"
"When I dragged my feet and all."
“Right... Can you remember anything from last night?”
“Just some dreams. Kinda nice, seems like the pill worked.”
“You were, ah, sleepwalking a little.”
Bucky’s eyes widen. “Shit, I was? Did I do anything?”
Steve pauses, long enough for Bucky to notice. “No. Just, at first I really thought you were awake.”
Bucky studies him. “You know you can restrain me if I do anything weird, ok? Just push me back into the closet or knock me out. Or do what you have to. I’m still... I’m still a dangerous person to have around.” Bucky emphasizes ‘person,’ which for anybody else would be strange, but Steve sees it as a positive milestone.
"Maybe it was a one off thing. I'll let you know if it happens again. But hey, wanna go out and get ice cream with me to celebrate? Maybe do a lap around the park?"
"Yeah, Steve," Bucky says, his easy smile returning. "I'd like that a lot."
~~
It’s one of those nights. After a long day of mission preparations and newspaper history diving, Steve’s dream points the steering wheel straight to Hornytown--population: the Winter Soldier, naked on his kitchen floor.
His hand slips into his pants before he’s even all the way awake, and it feels so fucking good, he’s already fully hard. The Soldier hadn’t said anything but in the dream he’d been kneeling and urging Steve forward, opening his mouth wide in clear invitation. His lips were so wet, jaw slack, eyes tempting him forward. Steve knows that mouth would be so warm like his hand is, but wetter, heat like sliding into a hot bath. All he’d have to do is walk a few steps and thrust in.
In the dream he didn’t do it, so the Soldier just waited, and waited, looking hungrier by the second. Steve presses his face into the cool pillowcase and strokes himself in his underwear, sighing in relief at the friction and wetness already there. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s just a dream. The Soldier in his dream was hard, dick twitching in the air, his hands hung deferential and still at his sides, waiting for Steve.
Steve’s so close. He forces his hand to slow down, make this last. He rolls over so he can hump down into his fist, lifting his hips back and a few inches into the air before pushing down again and again. The mattress creaks softly and the bed bumps up against the wall, so he tries to make less noise-- god, he doesn’t want Bucky to hear.
It feels so good he can almost imagine he’s thrusting into Bucky’s eager mouth, not the Soldier’s obedient and helpless one. He could make it so good for Bucky, so good for both of them, eagerly reciprocating.
Steve’s never tasted him, or any man for that matter, but he can easily imagine how amazing it would be. Bucky’s dick is probably so smooth, the head so soft and sensitive, he could lick it like a popsicle and wetly kiss it until Bucky begs him to let him come. He’d wrap his hand around Bucky and pump him in time with Bucky’s thrusts, let Bucky choke him with his dick. Eyes squeezed shut, Steve comes hard at the thought of tasting Bucky on his tongue and swallowing around him.
He’s just catching his breath when the mattress under him shifts slightly to one side.
“Need some help,” the real Bucky mutters softly. Steve wakes up immediately at that, and bolts upright.
Bucky is framed by a thin shaft of light spilling in from the hallway. Steve checks; his own clothes are still on and thankfully Bucky didn't catch him with his hand down his pants.
“Buck! Ha, you got me good," Steve says, aiming for a natural, I-definitely-wasn't-masturbating-to-a-brainwashed-version-of-you tone. "What's up?”
Bucky points down. Steve sees Bucky's tented jeans.
“Oh. That’s not...” Steve desperately tries to compartmentalize his arousal at the sight. “I think you know how to take care of that.”
Bucky clenches his fists, metal fingers grating into his palm. “Self-gratification is not permissible.”
There's no denying it now that Bucky is sleep walking and stuck in a loop of trauma. Steve swallows hard to get rid of the lump in his throat and lets out the breath he’s been holding. He softens his tone as much as possible. “Bucky... come on, wake up.”
“Don't call me that!” Bucky’s voice is threaded with panic. “I don't want them to kill you again.”
Even though he seems lucid, all it takes is a soft siren leaking its way through the solid windows of the apartment for him to snap around and then back. “Sir!”
Bucky’s clearly elsewhere -- he unzips, unbuttons, and pulls down his jeans with regimented motion. His penis points nearly straight out, jerking a little from his hands’ movement. But that, shocking though it is, isn’t what fixates Steve’s gaze. Bucky’s metal hand slips back into his pants and pulls his balls forward, like Steve especially needs to see that they’re both still there.
"Just please help me. Before he comes back," Bucky begs.
In a way that’s a relief but Steve has no clue what Bucky’s talking about. Still, he's got adrenaline pumping through his veins like he's fresh from a fight.
“Buck, I’m gonna turn on the light, ok?”
Seeing him lit up in the lamp’s warm glow doesn’t improve matters. What little he can see of Bucky’s stomach and groin is flushed pink, pillowed in coarse, dark hair. Steve has rarely seen Bucky in this state of undress. Back in the ‘30s, Bucky always cared so much about about the state of his clothes around him-- if they fit just right, if his outfit made him look like a slacker or like he listened to too much jazz to get hired -- and now he’s just standing cock-out in the middle of Steve’s bedroom. Overall it’s unbearably appealing.
Bucky, clearly expecting something other than dazed silence, squints at him like Steve is a card-carrying dunce, pointy hat and all. “Priapism is not permissible. Wanting is not permissible. Please, you're my handler. ” He gestures back at his erection.
“What exactly,” Steve coughs a little, choking on his own spit. “...do you need from me?” He’d stumbled upon some reading about the modern world and all kinds of ways one could apply a vibrating apparatus. “I could, um, help you order some toys tomorrow, maybe?”
“Help, Steve!” Bucky grabs Steve’s hand and tries to pull it towards himself.
Steve has to force himself to pull back, when all he wants is to touch, but not like this. But Bucky’s grip is vibranium-strong and holds him just inches away from his straining cock. “Bucky, stop.”
Bucky doesn’t let go, just stares at him. “Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.”
“Bucky, Jesus. We can’t. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“My phone ran out of batteries,” Bucky mumbles, finally letting go of Steve’s hand.
“We’ll, um, charge it in the morning...” Steve suddenly feels very lost, and by the looks of it, Bucky is completely out to lunch. It’s like he’s staring right through Steve into some invisible target. The shock of seeing Bucky’s erection in reality starts to wear off.
"Did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” Bucky’s not looking at him anymore. "He has a malfunction, boys. Give him a hand."
The web of solutions occurring to Steve to handle this problem contains many sleep-fogged ideas. His brain greedily zooms in on “touch him, just touch him like he wants” in a glowing marquee and then lists every possible consequence that could arise.
Bucky’s fiddling with his sleeves, gripping his metal arm tightly. “Steve! My arm.”
“What is it?”
“Is it recyclable?”
Steve sighs, thanking the heavens for the abrupt topic change to postpone his internal crisis. Bucky’s got a hell of a thought process. He’s seen Bucky do a couple of things he’d never seen a man do during recovery. “Come on, you’re going back to bed.”
Bucky leaves Steve and sets up an elaborate nest on the living room couch.
Only when the adrenaline calms down does Steve notice how his boxers are sticking horribly to his pubic hair. He changes into new ones, scrubs the residue off his Glock, and does another check of all the locks.
The next thing Steve knows, Bucky’s snoring, face first into the couch cushions. He doesn’t wake up until 1pm.
~~
Steve watches Bucky smile wistfully, turning pages in his book.
"I dreamed about my ma and pa. Becca. You shoulda seen 'em."
"Sounds like a good dream."
"It was." He looks up from the page, "I didn't do that thing again, did I?"
He's been happy ever since he started taking the sleeping pills. So present and pain-free. Steve just needs to deal with Bucky occasionally bothering him in the middle of the night.
"Not any worse than the first time."
At that, Steve's phone goes off with the alert to assemble.
"Hey," Bucky shouts as Steve scrambles into his uniform. "Don't let me hurt anyone. Including you."
"Got it!"
The book closes. "I'm serious."
"You can't hurt me, Bucky. I know you'll always find a way to hold yourself back," he says, dropping his shield into place on his back. "Text me what you want for dinner. I'll pick it up on my way home."
~~
Steve comes home late that night after a few tense hours of convincing an aspiring criminal mastermind in Chicago to put the gun down and release the hostages to their frightened trainers. (By "hostages", it should be understood that they were prized AKC poodles.) He’s tired, and honestly a little pissed off that it was his job to deal with that.
The apartment is empty when he pushes open the front door. Bucky must be off somewhere doing something, and while Steve is not in the mood to figure out where he went, he can’t help but be anxious about it. He doesn’t fully relax until he hears Bucky open the front door and the sound of shopping bags being set down.
Bucky approaches Steve’s bedroom door just as Steve is drifting off. At least this time he knocks politely.
“Can’t find the key. For your gift.” Bucky mumbles through the wood before Steve can answer him.
“What gift, Buck? I didn't...” Steve trails off when the door cracks open and Bucky shuffles in, naked except for a black t-shirt and socks.
Steve tries to avert his gaze, he really does, but there’s something shining where there should only be skin. Bucky flips the lightswitch on and lifts up his shirt hem to show him fully, baring his dick.
There’s a metal device encasing Bucky’s penis. A cock cage. Steve has heard about these but never seen one this close. It’s brutal, but in a way it’s also beautiful-- decorative. His brain blares warning signals, but his skin can’t help but blush from head to toe. This cannot be good.
“Need your help. Can’t find the key. Gotta get this thing off.” Bucky’s partially erect, shit it looks painful. Steve tries so hard not to stare.
“I didn’t... why?” Steve asks, at a loss for words.
“Good idea you had, to restrain myself so I can’t bother you at night.” That makes no sense whatsoever, since Steve has never even thought about this. But now… he has a feeling he won’t be able to stop thinking about it.
Steve helpfully shuts up what his brain wants to say. “Well, this is pretty different from the other night,” he goes for instead.
Bucky probably has no idea what that means. “Yeah, it’s pretty, huh? Can’t hurt you in there. Can’t hurt anyone. Real soft.”
“Soft” is not a word anyone would use to describe Bucky’s dick right now. It’s red, bulging out of the device wherever it can, and probably hurts like hell to keep it in there. For all Steve knows, it could be a medical emergency soon.
Could he research this? Is this something other people would know about? No, he can’t… put that out there, on his cellphone where anyone (Tony) might stumble on it.
He ushers Bucky out of his room instead and tries to pry information from him about where the key could be and what it looks like. He looks through Bucky’s shopping bags in the hallway, discovering the box the device came in and a receipt with today’s date on it. It’s from a company called Private Passions. He can’t find a key, though, even when he shakes out the box and all the packaging.
“I used to wear these all the time,” Bucky says a little distantly. He sounds like he's looking right through Steve. "There used to be holes they'd lace it through."
Steve doesn't reply as he pulls Bucky along with him into the living room and kitchen. He tries to focus on the search, looking in every drawer and cranny as fast as he can so nothing terrible will happen to Bucky’s body from being too long in that... thing.
"Where's the key, Buck? Where is it?" Steve says on the edge of a shout, yanking open the utensil drawer. He doesn't mean to be losing his cool over this.
“Why would they tell me? I’ve been bad.” Bucky sounds lost in thought, distracted in his own world.
It takes searching the whole apartment, but Steve does eventually find the key.
It’s in the refrigerator. Of course.
“Bet you thought I ate it.” Bucky reaches down to touch the cage, then hisses. “Not as bad as the spiked ones, this.” Steve doesn’t have time to analyze that or why it makes his dick perk up in the midst of his fear. He’s too busy trying to get Bucky to accept the key from him.
“Bucky, you’ve got to get that off now.” The urgency in his voice makes no impact on Bucky, who holds his hands behind his back.
“I'm not a handler. Not allowed to take it off.”
“Really?” Steve’s voice sounds as weak as he feels. He’s not supposed to touch. Bucky just stands there at parade rest, the whole wrapped-up package on display.
The floor comes up to Steve’s knees and he discovers he knelt without his brain’s permission. His hands hardly shake as he tries to get the tiny key into the cage’s lock without touching Bucky, but it’s an impossible task. The keyhole on the underside of the cage is so small, and there’s no way to touch the metal without touching Bucky’s tight skin stretched to fill out the cage.
Heat radiates off of Bucky’s dick so close to his fingers. Steve’s hand slips and brushes up against Bucky’s balls, making Bucky squirm and sigh. Maybe Steve is still dreaming? No, there’s that too-real tantalizing smell of pure James Buchanan Barnes again invading his nostrils and begging him to lean forward and taste. He gets the key in the hole, twisting it in his sweaty fingers. As delicately as he can, he pushes Bucky’s balls back through the silver ring holding them in place. The fumbling and accidental groping to unlock it is for nothing; Bucky’s dick is too hard and dry to pull it out of the device without hurting him.
Bucky seems to notice the problem. “Brock would just yank it off.” Steve shakes his head up at Bucky in horror. “Could wet it so it’ll slide out. Or you could get a stun baton, that’ll make it soft.”
Steve chooses wet. He doesn’t even consider trying to find some kind of lube, just spits into his hand and wipes it on the metal, stroking Bucky in the process. It’s deeply counter-productive; Bucky gasps and his dick gives such a powerful throb that the whole contraption jumps up for a split second. Steve stares at it and how close the painfully hard flesh is to his mouth. He could get it wetter from here. Most of his own blood has already gone south or is flushing his face bright red, rather than contributing a single useful thought to his brain. He never knew Bucky would make these sighing, desperate sounds of pleasure.
“You have to get a stun baton.”
Steve takes that info like a physical wallop to the chest. More than anyone else, Bucky has a real way of giving him emotional whiplash.
“Please, just hit me. If they have to amputate it, we'll both be punished."
Fine. Steve takes a deep breath and slaps Bucky’s hip, well away from the device.
“It has to be--” Bucky locks his jaw in frustration. “Harder. Like you mean it.”
Steve’s not crying but his throat is closing up with the feeling of impending tears. “I do mean it. I really want you to get out of this thing safely.”
“No, harder like you don’t care if I do or not.” Fuck, how many people have hurt Bucky this way before that it’s so goddamn routine?
Steve closes his eyes; he can’t look at Bucky while he does this. There’s nothing he wants less than to use his strength against Bucky. He hasn't struck Bucky since their fight on the helicarrier and he'd told himself he never would again, for any reason. But if it’ll get the job done...
In one smooth motion he stands up and backhands Bucky hard across the face. Bucky’s face lurches to the side from the force of the impact.
An entire minute goes by in silence. Steve holds his breath, glancing down at Bucky’s erection and back at Bucky’s face, then down again. Nothing happens. A hit wasn’t enough to wake him up. If anything, Bucky’s even thicker now.
“My work has been a gift to mankind,” Bucky mutters. “Wanna punch me in the face this time?”
Striking him once just about broke Steve’s heart in two. Steve’s not crying now either but water is inconveniently blurring his vision. “No, Buck. I can’t. There’s got to be another way.”
“I'm sorry to let you down. Disappointing my handler is the most painful thing I know.”
Steve gets an idea, but hates everything about it. He tries to think what he can say that will get this over with the soonest, one and done.
“Okay. Bucky. By working for HYDRA for so long, you failed all of us. You failed me.”
Bucky’s mouth hangs open. Within five seconds the cage falls to the floor. Steve forgets to catch it.
“Bucky, I don’t mean that,” Steve says through his tears, bending down to pick up the device and keep it away from Bucky. “You’re the strongest man I ever met. I would never think that about you.”
“But you did.” Bucky hunches in on himself. He looks like he’s starting to come down, getting tired. "Shoulda just punched me."
Steve wipes his eyes; he can have his full breakdown later. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed. You’ve never failed me. Not once, Buck.”
“Whatever you say,” Bucky responds, and goes obediently back under his covers.
~~
Steve doesn’t get a lot of sleep that night. He doesn’t need much anyway. Hurting Bucky that way still feels like shit, but at least Bucky gets some sleep. Steve naps from 5am to 7am, tangled up in his sheets.
In his dreams, Steve’s whole body is trapped in a cage and Bucky, dressed head to toe in tactical gear, taunts him playfully, touching him everywhere. The cage immobilizes his body but his dick stands out grotesquely from the contraption. He can’t hear the words, but Bucky’s clearly egging him on, sucking and kissing his dick, slipping metal fingers into his mouth and his hole, tickling him through the bars. His whole body is an erection that can’t escape its confines. He struggles and twists, but finds he doesn’t really want to get free as Bucky sucks him all the way down and moans.
He wakes up with a slippery mess in his underwear, panting and halfway to asphyxiation in his blankets. He feels like the worst person in the world at recalling the previous night-- there’s a chastity device on his floor; he can smell it from across the room.
That day Bucky offers no sign whatsoever that he remembers any of it. Bucky tells him that his shrink knows about the sleepwalking and gave him a stronger dose. “She’s having me go on runs before bed so I’m tired. At least, much as I can be. I told her you said it’s not a big deal in the first place, but this should help.”
“Yeah, not a problem.”
Oh yeah. Not a problem at all. Fuck.
~~
That night, Steve leans back to rest against the headboard, cradling Sam’s collection of short stories. For once he’s not on his newspaper mission. It’s healthy to take a break from the shittiness of reality with fiction, Sam said. His ears pick up the tell-tale sounds of Bucky walking around, trying to be quiet. He steels himself a little as the footsteps head towards his room.
The bedroom door flies open without even a knock. Bucky is still dressed in his daytime comfortable sweater and sweatpants and has his hair pulled back in a cute ponytail. He takes two long strides to Steve and, yeah, that’s not Bucky’s face and too-wide eyes. Steve barely has a moment to wonder what could have made the sleepwalking Soldier so angry before a metal fist lifts him by the shirtfront and Steve is getting punched in the cheek. And then again.
It's the element of surprise and positioning that has him at the disadvantage. Steve falls to the side and rolls off the bed. Bucky kicks him in the stomach several times while he's down with a socked foot. Steve kips up, but the moment he's on his feet, the metal hand is back on his shirt, overbalancing him too far forward and sending him face-first into the floor. A good stomp on his back keeps him down.
He’s hellbent on knocking the piss out of Steve. Steve's face is a bloody mess. He's sure a couple bones are broken. Bucky -- the real one, during the day-- would be horrified at what his body is doing right now. Bucky’s not trying to make some kind of a point here. He’s not sure what Bucky’s goal is but if it were murder, guns and knives would be involved. This? This is just a whole lot of pain.
They're grappling. Bucky plops down on his back and swiftly punishes every attempt to flip over or get his knees under him by bending Steve's joints backward or digging knuckles deep into pressure points.
He doesn’t stop there. With a firm hand on the back of his neck pinning him down, he starts viciously tearing off Steve’s sleep pants and boxers. Steve prepares for the worst. If anyone were going to do this to him, he’s glad it’s Bucky. It’s not supposed to be like this, but it’s still Bucky. Maybe Bucky’s in there somewhere right now, and they have a chance together someday to do this right.
Still, Steve panics, mind racing for solutions, when the metal arm snakes around his neck for a sleeper hold. His supply of oxygen being cut off makes him scramble for a new tactic. His shield sits useless by the doorway in the living room. Even if he could grab it, Steve wagers Bucky would wrest it out of his hands. He’s actually going to need to throw Bucky off somehow, or truly hurt him into letting go, or else Bucky is going to suffocate him.
Steve taps frantically on the floor, as if they were play-sparing at the gym and Steve wasn't a minute away from giving up the ghost. The pressure around his neck releases suddenly and Bucky slumps down over Steve, groaning like gravity offends him. By some miracle, either the tap-out registered to Bucky or the drug finally started doing what it's supposed to do. Anyway, he’s out.
Steve heaves a sigh of relief then immediately regrets it when his throat and ribs protest violently. He knows what he has to do now. He gathers up into his arms his extremely heavy, partially conscious best friend who just assaulted him. He brings him into the bathroom to wash his own blood off metal knuckles.
Every movement hurts, even standing. It’s hell on Steve’s shoulders and bruised arms to lift Bucky and haul his sleeping body back into his couch. Neither of them require hospitalization. His body is already healing from the onslaught. He made the right choice. In a way, it’s more straightforward than the other nights Bucky has come to his room.
Steve tells himself that while he spends the rest of the night cleaning up the worst of the mess and hiding it. There’s no need for Bucky to see the next day how bad it really got.
~~
When Bucky rises and shines the next afternoon, Steve is wearing his full Captain America suit and cowl.
"Too good for civis, Cap?" Bucky says, snagging a mug.
"Maybe I just need to do laundry," Steve mumbles.
"Steve. Wait. What's with your..." Bucky steps in front of him before he can retreat into the bedroom. "Did you have a mission last night?"
Steve's throat goes dry and he can't find it in himself to lie.
Bucky's fingers ghost over his swollen eye and busted lip. His hand settles on the uniform. "Take this off. Please."
He does so, reluctantly. Still achy from last night, he takes off the cowl, then steps out of the suit. His neck is sporting a huge green and purple bruise. It’s not the only one. Bucky takes one look at the bruises in the shape of his arm plates and loses his shit.
“No. Steve, no. I did that.” Bucky starts to panic, Steve can see the fear in his eyes. His breathing starts coming fast and he backs away, shaking his head. “I thought the Soldier was gone. Shit. Shit. Oh God, Steve!” He backs into a wall and his hands come up to hide his face.
“Wait, hold on a second. It’s okay, Bucky.”
“No! It's just like the words!” He pulls his hands down to stare at Steve, wide-eyed. “I-- Steve, I’m so sorry-- I’m flushing all the pills down the toilet. Right now.” He runs towards his room.
“Wait! You don’t have to do that.”
Bucky whirls around. “What can you possibly say that could justify this?”
Steve holds out his hands, then hides them behind him when he realizes how bruised and mangled they still appear. “Think about it. Am I hurt any worse than I could get on an average milk-run mission?”
“That’s not--”
“And every night you get at least twelve hours, compared to zero before. Am I wrong?” Steve interrupts.
“They told me you’re a martyr, but this is way too far.”
Steve shrugs it off. “Bucky, I...” It’s so essential, so absolutely imperative that Bucky knows how he feels but this is without question a bad time to tell Bucky that he’s in love with him. “You always told me I was mighty dense. But you’re the best thing that’s happened to me. Let me do this for you.”
“There need to be rules. I’m not safe. I shouldn’t even be living here. If you’re dumb enough to do this, then you have to restrain me at night. ”
Steve nods in understanding. “I did ingest a lot of lead as a child. Did you know that’s not recommended now?”
Bucky now looks on the verge of tears, taking in the black eye Steve’s sporting as it fades to yellow. “I can’t believe you’re treating this like it’s nothing.”
Steve wishes he could hug him, tell him how much he really means to him, but again it’s not the right time. The likelihood of Bucky rejecting him builds and builds in his mind. Fear snuffs out the words he could have said in the dark, to a man who wouldn’t have understood him anyway. “I'm not giving up on you that easy. It obviously wasn’t you in the cockpit."
“If you care about me, care about you and stop me sooner next time.”
“Understood.” Steve nods. “We’ll get through this. Tonight we’ll take some precautions, ok?”
~~
Steve’s fully healed by nighttime anyway. When it’s time to put Bucky to bed, Steve isn’t sure if he’s aroused or nauseated. Maybe it’s both. They decide to break out the emergency mag cuffs to keep Bucky immobilized, locking Bucky’s arms at his front, and pinning his calves together. Bucky can sleep on his back and a few straps will keep him from leaving the futon couch.
While Steve’s neck-deep in internal fretting, it’s clear that Bucky’s not. Bucky seems resigned, not ashamed, to be in a situation he’s probably been in a thousand times before. This time, though, he’s anything but powerless, making this choice for himself with no punishment forthcoming. Steve made sure he'd be as comfortable as possible in thick sweatpants and sleeves to protect his flesh wrist and his legs from the cuffs.
The sight they make should be anything other than alluring. Apparently Steve's body didn't get the memo. He can't take his eyes off the contrast of Bucky's soft outfit, covering his huge, muscular frame, as he locks him into the cuffs. He carefully fastens the straps crossing Bucky’s chest, waist, and thighs that they set up to wrap around the futon frame.
“Anything too tight?” Bucky wriggles around, testing the pull on each restraint. Steve can just picture how easy it would be to climb on top of him and kiss him senseless, touch him everywhere, make him strain against the bindings in shocked pleasure. How that would be the worst thing to do in this situation, the most depraved response to this situation and counterproductive way to help Bucky. He settles for wrapping Bucky up in the sheets and fluffy comforter and suppresses the urge to give him a full-body hug.
“All set?” Steve asks, checking everything over. Bucky nods. With great difficulty Steve leaves his side to turn out the lights. “Good night, Bucky.”
“Night, Steve. Stop worrying.”
Steve hopes at least one of them will get a decent night’s sleep, but he’s not banking on it. It just can’t be a repeat of last night. He leaves his bedroom door open just in case.
He does drift off after a while. Vivid as usual, his dreams place him square where he wants to be, which is someplace he doesn’t belong. He dreams of making gentle love to Bucky beneath him, while the Winter Soldier pounds him from behind, heedless of anything beyond his mission. Bucky presses unhurried, wet kisses against his lips, indulging in the contact. He spreads his legs, seemingly unaware of the fury and deep satisfaction forcing its way into Steve. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes, blissed out, and Steve doesn’t dare to look back and risk the ire of the Soldier. There’s the unmistakable chill of a knife under his chin and hard metal knuckles pressing into his neck. Despite the ferocity of his thrusts, the knife hasn’t nicked him in the slightest, moving back and forth exactly in tune with their jerking bodies. If the Soldier wanted him bleeding, he already would be.
It’s terrifying, of course it is, being held at knifepoint by someone he knows but can’t see. Yet he can’t help craving the thrill of it. The thrusting behind him should hurt tremendously but it’s his dream; all he feels is stuffed full and surging with pleasure beyond belief.
He’s not sure how he knows the three of them have been going at it for hours. It’s still not enough, and he’s stunned at how lucky he is to have both of them. They’re fighting a losing battle trying to extinguish lust with more lust. It builds like a storm inside him, rumbling and crackling and ready to burst.
Bucky suddenly breaks their kisses to whine and then moan, and then he’s screaming? That’s not right, why would he be...
He wakes up to the sound of actual screaming coming from the living room. Steve is out his door and into the living room in three seconds flat.
Bucky’s screaming, on the floor, having broken the straps clean off the futon but the mag cuffs remain attached. He looks like he's seconds away from using them as a battering ram to break the coffee table into shards. When he sees Steve, he quiets down, panting hard.
Steve’s ready for the worst but he asks anyway. “Bucky, what’s going on?”
“Steve,” Bucky groans on the floor, tears leaking down his cheeks. Steve takes in the picture he makes, shackled and red-faced and covered in sweat.
Bucky gathers himself up into an uncomfortable-looking ball and rests his forehead down on the magnetic cuffs. He’s watching the puffs of air condense on them, then breathing them back in. “I was back there. HYDRA.’ He swallows hard. “They chained me up. Restrained me. Then they did so many things... so many times... so many ways.”
Steve kneels down next to him, probably too close but he doesn’t care. It’s enough to make him want to cry too. “It was a dream. You’re safe here.”
“Safe, yeah. I get more sleep but I’m so damn scared of hurting you that I have to keep myself from you.”
Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t speak.
“It’s hard, being this way.” Bucky goes on, talking to the cuffs. “I can want things now. I do. But I’m out of control and you don’t want me.”
“Woah, let's get one thing straight. I've loved you since the 30s. But I've waited decades, so I don't need to jump into something unless we're both ready for it.”
“Please, can you?” Steve looks at him, waiting for clarification. The tears are very distracting. “Can you just touch me?”
“Sure, Buck, want a hug? We could take these off...” He nods at the cuffs holding Bucky’s legs and arms together.
“Long as I’m awake, I won’t hurt you, I promise I -” Steve cuts him off and proceeds to tap in the passcode of the mag cuffs. They whirr unclenched and thud to the floor, leaving Bucky to stretch out his living arm. He undoes the cuffs strapped across Bucky's calves.
Steve very gingerly caresses Bucky’s back. “Do you want hot chocolate? A hot towel?”
Bucky wipes the last of the tears and night sweats from his face with a fistful of his bunched up sweater collar. “No, I...” He sighs and seems to clear his thoughts. “You don’t have to touch me like that, like I’m so fragile. And you were wrong earlier.”
“Wrong about what?” Steve is still in caregiver mode, a little shocked to see Bucky collect himself so quickly from such an intense recollection of HYDRA.
“You don’t get to say when I'm ready for things. I mean, nobody is ever really well, right? Are you well after being in that ice, longer than I ever was?”
“No. Not exactly. But you’re here to make life better, Buck.”
Bucky almost cracks a smile, gets about as close as his face will let him. “You’re still doing all these things for me, taking care of me. But I’m not a bird in a cage. I can do some things." He turns his head to look directly into Steve's eyes then. "I can do some things for you.”
Steve did not expect to run to a screaming Bucky in the middle of the night, only to end up getting a monolog to put Broadway to shame. Maybe the adrenaline lit Bucky up, or his traumatic dream gave him some kind of eureka moment on the floor. But he is going to listen to every bit of it and see where it leads.
“Like what, Bucky? You know you don’t have to-”
“I don’t have to do jack shit, Rogers. I want to. I want to help you. Since I’ve been getting more sleep, I’ve been able to pull my thoughts out of my own brain some. I’ve seen you, the way you sit, the way you fidget sometimes. You’re tense.”
Almost imperceptibly, Steve’s fingers slowly begin to interlace and tap on each other frantically.
“See? I know you want it." Bucky leans back and rests his weight on his metal arm. "How can we do this if you don't let me try?”
Steve’s thoughts begin to dart back and forth, and his face gets all flush. He’d thought it would be so long before Bucky and he could enjoy each other’s bodies, the way they do in his dreams, or even a shadow of that. That fortress he’s built up tells him he’s taking advantage of a vulnerable victim of abuse if he indulges.
But it’s not as though anything Bucky is saying is false. Assuming he’s not in some deeper, more meta-level version of sleepwalking, oh god.
"You're definitely awake, right? And this can't wait until tomorrow? You're sure?"
"Did you listen to what I said or not?"
“Okay, Buck. Let’s have it your way.”
Bucky's face lights up, though it's mostly just in his eyes. “So how about you kiss me?”
“Wow, a sleep-walker and a mind-reader.” Steve slides himself closer to Bucky and lightly holds onto Bucky's sweater-clad shoulder. Before he can talk himself out of it, he plants the softest kiss on Bucky's lips, and Bucky melts forward into him.
They’re annoyingly interrupted by the buzz of Steve’s phone, which makes Bucky twitch. As much as he wants to throw the fucking thing across the room and have it smash into a million pieces, he’s already replaced it four times. He fishes it out, and scrabbles for the goddamn airplane mode, while Bucky stretches languidly, distracting him for solid moments.
Just as he’s trying to remember what the fuck he was doing with his phone, he notices a text from Sam that makes him pause. He doesn’t bother reading it- he has better things to do, but…
What would Sam think? No, who the fuck cares? Bucky asked him to do this. Bucky needs this, and Steve spent over a decade asking things of Bucky. He can return the favor. The phone goes on the floor - if it gets stepped on and murdered by them during sex then that’s not his fault.
Steve leans forward again. He doesn’t realize how much he’d been subconsciously rehearsing for this moment, for years now, that it’s almost mechanically perfect. The tender press of Bucky's lips and the brush of stubble under his mouth mesmerize Steve and he forgets to pull back. He could just never leave here.
Reaching around him, Steve gives Bucky the firm, heavy stroke down his back that he asked for, massaging the cotton into his muscles. “Mmmmmm,” Bucky murmurs from underneath Steve’s lips.
“Mmhmm...” Steve’s mouth lingers as long as possible, then he moves away to ask: “Where else would you like to be touched?”
Bucky unwraps himself promptly from the comfy sweatshirt, tugging his undershirt with it, then points to his chest with an open metal palm. Steve moves up to grasp and explore the hairy expanse and rigid nipples that make up the terrain of Bucky’s chest.
“You’re lucky to want that, because I really like this part of you.” Steve relishes as he folds and pushes Bucky’s pectoral muscles around. Bucky sucks in a breath every time those strong fingers dig themselves in for a deeper hold.
Steve encircles his hands around Bucky to the small of his back, giving a little squeeze along the way to test the density of him. Bucky eggs him on with sweet sounds and encouragement. He begins to travel down, tracing Bucky’s line of abdominal hair downwards, following his hand with a trail of sucking kisses. The salty taste combines with blissful warmth and smooth textures and he just has to rub his nose and cheek all over Bucky’s stomach. He still can’t really believe this is finally happening.
Bucky’s sweatpants, formerly loose, now accommodate an exciting new addition against his thigh. Steve’s seen it plenty by now under increasingly bizarre circumstances. It looks like this time, he might actually get to touch it. But he’s loath to disturb the tantalizing picture Bucky makes, fabric stretching over his erection so snugly he can see the head of Bucky’s dick perfectly outlined.
“Think I need to call in another favor.” Thank God he said something coherent before he could start drooling. Steve tears his gaze away from the beautiful bulge below him to look up into Bucky’s eyes.
“Yeah.” Bucky smirks a little and reclines, reaching down to lower his pants. Who needs underwear on a night when you’re mag-cuffed and strapped to your own bed?
Steve leans down and breathes in that gorgeous smell of Bucky. Finally he gets to taste and kiss and lick to his heart’s content. He’s experimental about it, because although every part of Bucky smells and tastes incredible, the real treat is teasing and surprising Bucky into making gasps and groans above him. Steve considers the ferocity and strength contained in the beloved body before him that’s now so relaxed and basking in pleasure. He catalogs exactly which areas make Bucky’s dick jump and conveniently Steve’s dick twitches in solidarity. A bit of suction on the spot where Bucky’s thigh meets his balls is met with a full-body jolt and both of Bucky’s hands telling him to stay right there and keep doing that. But Steve can’t be kept away from Bucky’s dick for very long. He gets right back to licking.
There’s no time to worry if Bucky loves him back. He tries not to think about it, how Bucky sees this tangled web of events. This is just an urge for Bucky. He’s trapped and traumatized and hurt- He doesn’t need Steve’s hundred years of pining. But… maybe he can give it to Bucky so good that they can be together forever. Can a blowjob do that? His brain full of sparkles and breathless euphoria, Steve stuffs as much of Bucky’s dick down his throat as he can.
Bucky appreciates that, it sounds like. He’ll just have to do it again and again.
Steve reaches for Bucky’s flesh hand to grip it and massage it while he sucks Bucky for all he’s worth. Steve’s burning up under his clothes. His tongue is squished up against hard, delicious flesh and his hand is in heaven, fingers caressing and squeezing Bucky’s. His hand needs to live in Bucky’s hand forever. If the flesh hand is this ecstatically good to feel up and squeeze, he can’t wait to hold the metal one too. Bucky grips Steve’s hand tight, making him look up, and he sees Bucky’s mouth has dropped open just a little.
Bucky must be getting impatient, squirming like he is. He picks up Steve’s other hand and puts it on his dick, moves it slowly in time with Steve’s mouth. Something is definitely going right: Bucky’s head is all the way tipped back and every few seconds he lets out a delicious groan. Bucky’s metal hand twists Steve’s during each stroke as it nears the head. Steve’s a fast learner and picks up the rhythm quickly as Bucky thrusts into his mouth and makes Steve take it.
It practically causes Steve physical pain to let go of Bucky’s flesh hand, but Steve shoving his own hand into his pants is a pressing necessity. There’s a gorgeous cock in his mouth and Bucky’s sounds are driving him up the wall. His rhythm on Bucky falters as he touches himself furiously, but apparently the moaning vibration around Bucky’s dick is worth the tradeoff. A hand latches onto the back of Steve’s head and helps him out, pushing him down, up, back down...
What Steve thought might be a momentary shiver of delight turns into Bucky’s legs shaking non-stop and Bucky’s hand urging him faster and harder. He has to let go of himself to give Bucky exactly what he needs. Bucky’s panting gasps start sounding like desperate whimpers and the trembling is getting extreme. Like everything in life, Steve doubles down and gives it all he’s got, bobbing his head fast and licking hard until Bucky’s flooding his mouth with salt and slamming his fist on the floor with a loud cry.
It’s a nice change from the screaming earlier.
Steve wastes no time at all: he shoves his pants down, spits the come into his wet hand, and jacks himself into oblivion with it. He comes gasping all over Bucky’s thighs and bunched up sweatpants.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bucky says to the ceiling. His dick gives a little aftershock twitch. Steve studies the white drop of come that emerges.
Steve can’t feel his legs just yet. He sucks in air and tries not to come again from the sight of Bucky laid out. He settles for lying down next to Bucky and scooting as close as he dares. To his joy, Bucky reaches out an arm and pulls him nearer. They breathe together and sprawl out like the ground is a high-end lounge instead of a cold and sweaty floor.
“So restraining you was partially successful,” Steve announces quietly, to scoffing from Bucky. With the hand that’s not sticky, Steve pets Bucky’s neck. “Wanna try sleeping together?”
“God, what a fucking terrible idea,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. He yawns deeply. “Maybe if you blow me again.”
~~
Steve wakes up somewhat refreshed for once in this goddamn century. Weak light is spilling through his plain cream curtains, and he can smell bacon cooking. Shit, Bucky is cooking? That’s… probably not a great idea.
He climbs out of bed, and tentatively pokes his head around the corner to look into the space. No one’s in the kitchen, but Bucky is curled up on a couch watching tv and eating bacon straight off a frying pan, cradling the hot pan with his metal arm.
“Heya Buck,” he says with some relief. “Got any for me?”
“Nope,” Bucky shakes his head. “All your meat is mine.”
That makes something curdle in Steve’s stomach a little. Ah, he realises - he was feeling better because he’s still a little fucked out.
“We need to have a talk,” he says before he can help himself. Jesus, those words just spilled out of his mouth like he’s in a goddamn serial.
Bucky looks unimpressed. “Now you definitely can’t have any of my bacon.” He’s still a little distracted, eyes on the tv and not on Steve. Steve walks over and presses the red off button on the remote.
“Please, Buck?”
Bucky’s movements are a little sluggish as he makes eye-contact. “You don’t gotta say it like that, if you wanna tie me up or shove me in a closet-”
“No!” Steve objects violently. Bucky flinches. “No, shit. I just mean-”
“Well,” Bucky looks away. “Wouldn’t mind going to sit in the closet.”
“Really?” Steve frowns. “I was just gonna make some coffee and sit down here.”
“I like it, it’s safe. You could come with me.”
Steve blinks at him, but… well, he’s done weirder shit for Bucky in the last twenty-four hours. “Okay? Why don’t you go make yourself comfortable.”
“I want hot chocolate,” Bucky says, standing up and dumping his frying pan on the couch. “It’s raining.”
“Got it,” Steve agrees. He picks up Bucky’s abandoned skillet and goes over to the kitchen, making up cocoa with water and a copious amount of milk to top it up. He even finds some marshmallows sitting half-opened in the cupboard to shove on top.
At first he can’t see that Bucky’s even in the closet - the light is off and he’s sitting so still that he might as well be frozen.
Shit, frozen- ugh, Steve is grateful for the warmth radiating from the mugs of cocoa.
“Buck?”
“Yeah?”
Well, he’s there, and he’s responding instead of the blank staring that Steve gets from him sometimes. He passes over a mug for Bucky and gingerly edges his way into the closet. He finds some way to sit - this would have been much easier when he’d been five nothing - and doesn’t even spill his cocoa.
“You gotta shut the door,” Bucky points out, and that would have been great to know before Steve got settled.
Steve leans over and scrabbles at the door’s edges until it swings shut, clicking closed just enough in the little plastic catches.
“So what’s this big talk?” Bucky asks. “You finally gonna drop me in a loony bin?”
It hurts, that Bucky thinks he’d do that. “Nah,” he says. “You’re pretty stuck with me, but-” he sighs. “All of that last night-” He wishes he could just transmit his thoughts into Bucky’s brain, but also… Bucky’s had enough of that.
“What, me being so desperate you gotta take pity on me?”
Steve stares at him. “That. I just wanted to say- you can… anytime you need, Buck. I know I’m just a convenient… shoulder to cry on, but I’m happy to help.”
Bucky stares at him, his eyes glinting in the low light. “Steve, are you telling me you’re happy to be my sex toy?”
Steve shrugs uncomfortably. “Yeah? I know you have needs, and you’ve spent seventy years-”
“Needs,” Bucky says flatly, cutting him off. “Like… ‘I’ve been in love with you since we were teenagers’ needs?”
What-
Steve stares. For minutes, probably, endlessly stretching out to the horizon. He blinks.
“I’m getting a whole other complex over here, Steve,” Bucky says, a little nervously.
“Shit,” Steve swears. “Yes! I mean. No. I’ve- I also love you. That’s what I was trying to say- I love you and I want to-”
Bucky takes a sip of his cocoa. “This is really good. Lots of milk.”
“Bucky.”
“What? We’ve had the conversation. You wanna keep having sex with me?”
“Yeah?” Steve hedges, because that sounds like a trap.
“Great, me too. Don’t need a whole conversation about it.”
The End