Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first few days post-patch-up have the decency to blur together.

Day one, the painkillers are doing their job, and everything’s a brain-dead, floaty haze. Bucky's got enough drugs in him to tranquilize a horse, and he’s not thinking too hard, which is fine by him because thinking usually leads to places he doesn’t want to go. Peter’s glued to Bucky’s side on the bed, also seemingly content letting the idiots on the screen do all the heavy lifting when it comes to talking. Bucky couldn’t have asked for more.

Day two’s fine too. Same with the next one after that. Bucky sleeps a lot.

By day four, though, the party’s over. And so is the drugged bliss of Peter nuzzling against him and watching movie after movie on Netflix. 

Nat, in all her merciless glory, takes away the good shit.

“You’ve had enough,” she says, doing Bucky a favor. Not that it feels like one. Bucky glares at her, too much in pain to argue, too pissed to thank her. He’d flip her off, but that requires energy he doesn’t have.

He swallows a couple of anti-inflammatories that morning, and yeah, those aren’t worth a damn. Might as well be Tic Tacs for all the good they do. The restlessness that comes with it drags him downstairs—away from the comfort of Peter's hand on his stomach, his breath tickling Bucky’s collarbone. Just away. A mistake. Bucky knows himself, knows his body too, but.

Peter… can’t sit still now that they’re outside the bedroom, and Bucky’s stuck in a special kind of hell where the pain’s sharp, his patience is shot, and everything fucking sucks—limbo—not quite living, not yet dead; can’t do much, can’t bear not doing anything at all. And while pain itself might not be a stranger, that doesn’t make it any less of an asshole. Doesn’t make Bucky less of an asshole either, the fuse becoming shorter and shorter with each passing hour.

“Don't,” he just about not snaps at Peter’s attempt to adjust the sliding ice pack over his elbow.

Another thing Bucky’s not used to—someone sticking around when he’s like this instead of telling him to shut it and stop being a dick. He’d apologize properly for flying off the handle if he could muster up the words, but they get stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth, so he doesn’t at first. Rips the useless ice pack off and flings it over the bar counter and into the sink, giving Peter a look that’s half-grimace, half-sorry, hoping it’s enough to make up for being a shithead.

It is. Or at least, Peter pretends it is. Goes back to smiling as if nothing happened, walking away and getting busy with that ancient Pac-Man machine he and Clint brought up from the basement.

It’s not.

Even if Bucky wanted to believe it was, Sam’s by the darts, watching them, and he’s got a look on his face that confirms it. Sam’s right, of course, and Bucky has to get off the stool, limp his sorry ass over to where Peter’s working, crutch and all, and pull him close, resting his chin on top of Peter’s head.

“I am trying. Can fuck off if you need me to,” he mutters.

“Tell him to stop being a pussy, Parker,” suggests Clint, bringing in another box of old parts. “Found this. There’s more.”

“Stop being a pussy,” Peter mumbles into Bucky’s chest, and Bucky runs his hand through his brown hair before releasing him.

“Want help?” he asks, looking at a snake pit of cables and frowning at the rat droppings. “On second thought—”

Bucky’s got no fucking clue why he’s doing this or why he offered to begin with, but he ends up on the floor, back against the bar, a rag in hand, wiping down parts that are older than he is.

He'd rather go back to bed. But Peter seems to have a vested interest, so Bucky works methodically, if not a little aggressively, sorting everything into piles after the wipe-down—useful, maybe useful, and what-the-fuck-is-this. The “what-the-fuck” pile is growing. Half of everything in the boxes is corroded to shit, and Bucky’s sure that the arcade hasn’t seen electricity in at least a decade, maybe more. Still, he’s scraping gunk off a resistor. 

Across from him, Peter is cleaning the inside of the gutted Pac-Man, amassing a small pile of his own—dead spiders, mostly—but he’s humming to himself, buzzing with energy, and Bucky’s left wondering if Peter’s slowly losing his mind, stuck here for so long. It shouldn’t bother Bucky this much, he guesses—that’s Peter’s choice—but every time Peter grins or mutters some technical mumbo-jumbo to himself, so excited over nothing, Bucky feels that sting deeper, guilt and doubt creeping in. This isn't enough. Can't be.

Eventually, the boxes are empty, parts scattered across the floor, and Peter spends a few minutes sorting them into more “accurate piles,” which, honestly, look nothing like the ones Bucky made. Bucky’s no expert in this, his specialty lies elsewhere, but it inevitably irritates him all the same. Just does. Everything does, hence this being a mistake. He shouldn't be around Peter right now. The more parts Peter reclassifies—that smile of his no less gorgeous, no less endearing than it was before—the more Bucky thinks he’s not even good at sorting rusty junk. His leg throbs in time with his pulse, and he knows this feeling. The “What good am I to anyone?” with a side of mild opioid withdrawal.

Knowing why doesn’t make it better, though. 

His words dry up, not that he was actively participating in the conversation. He doesn’t have anything useful to say anyway, just a head full of angry noise, a body that’s betraying him at every turn, and Bucky oscillates between telling himself it's only pain and wanting to be anywhere but here.

He gets up with a wince, giving up. Doesn't want to snap again. Doesn't want to be this guy.

The crutch that’s been propped against the stool falls down with a loud clack, and everything’s a bit off—he’s swaying, nauseous, every muscle cramping up.

“Wanna go up?” Peter’s by him in a second, crutch being thrust into his metal hand. Fuck. Bucky doesn't need this. Can't handle this.

“I’ve got him,” Sam waves Peter off, getting Bucky to lean on his shoulder, holding him up—not their first rodeo—and Bucky clamps down on the frustration, forcing himself to ignore Peter’s concerned and slightly lost expression when he leaves.

Peter shows up a few hours later, footsteps light as he slips into their bedroom. Bucky’s drifting, but awake, and hears the door click, then the shuffle of feet on the floor. He knows it’s Peter before he even bothers to check, turning his head to the side. Gives him a lot of credit for holding out this long.

Peter doesn’t climb into bed. He kneels beside it, head right next to Bucky’s, eyes wide and worried. “Anything I can do?” he asks.

Bucky doesn’t answer at first, hums—a no, a don’t mind me—but since he’s actually trying, he has to add something.

“Takes longer than it does in the movies,” Bucky manages with a weak smirk. Presses his lips together tight, keeping the rest of the bullshit in. Because, really, what else is there to say? It hurts. It’ll stop hurting eventually. Not much to do about it in the meantime but wait it out.

“What, you telling me you couldn’t spring up now and take down a bunch of bad guys if you felt like it?” The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle a little, but his voice is cautious.

Bucky could, probably. In theory. He’s fought with broken bones, bullets lodged in places they shouldn’t be, and enough stitches holding him together that he looked like a fucked-up quilt. Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug, and when you’ve been trained to fight through the pain, your body goes on autopilot. Survival and recovery are two different things, though. One’s a sprint; the other’s a crawl through glass. And Bucky… Bucky can't stand actual recovery for a reason.

“We are the bad guys,” Bucky reminds him, inching a bit closer, not even fucking sure why he’s at it again. He knows Peter isn’t going anywhere, and it ain’t even true, depending on how you look at it, but—

He’s lying on his back, the wrist of his left hand still almost as messed up as the rest of him, but he lifts it anyway. Brushes his thumb over Peter’s lower lip, it taking more effort than it should. Bucky’s knuckles are swollen, the joints stiff and sore, all wrong against Peter’s face. There’s a fresh scar on Peter’s cheekbone from when he was mugged, but even with it, he’s so far out of Bucky’s league it’s almost laughable.

“C’mere,” Bucky whispers, the angle all wrong too, but he wants it, maybe even needs it. Peter doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, and while it has to be somewhat uncomfortable for Peter, he melts into Bucky. Sighs. Chases away some of the chill with the warmth of his mouth. This—this is good.

Peter hovers over him, leaning in closer. Deepens the kiss, slips his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, soft lips pressing harder. Threads his hands through Bucky’s hair, scratches his scalp. So fucking gentle it’s nearly insulting—until he tugs rougher.

Moves lower, skimming down Bucky’s neck, tracing the line of his dog tags. He plays with the chain, rolling the small metal balls between his fingers, pushing them into Bucky’s skin. Bucky can’t help the small sound—a cross between a groan and a moan. Peter hears it, his lips curving into a smile against Bucky’s, and eases off, slowing down, not soothing the burn he just lit. Catches Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth and leans back.

Then looks at Bucky, pupils blown, searching, digging for something Bucky probably doesn’t have. Yet again. Answers, clarity, whatever the fuck Peter thinks he’ll find. Try another store, kid. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t want to tell Peter to stop expecting anything, to stop looking for something deeper in the fucked-up excuse for a person that is Bucky Barnes. But for some reason, everything in Bucky’s shitty, dark, cobweb-filled head feels a little less shitty when Peter’s there. And Peter’s always there now. This—this state of Bucky’s—will pass. He just hopes Peter doesn’t wise up and decide none of this is worth the hassle before it does.

“Can you—can you say it again?” Peter asks, uncertain, as if he isn’t sure he wants to hear it. Maybe needing affirmation that Bucky’s worth the effort, questioning things already. 

Or maybe it’s Bucky circling a different kind of drain, the one that leaves him feeling useless and helpless, when he’s got nothing to do but lie around. It’s gotta be a real fucking treat, dealing with him right now—cranky as hell, no purpose beyond getting better and trying not to be an asshole. Real prize to win.

Bucky smiles, brings Peter closer, the back of his neck sizzling hot against his palm, fingertips brushing against the short hairs there.

Regardless, this—this—Bucky can do. Can push all that shit aside; if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s surviving. Can’t fix everything else, can’t make himself get better faster, but can get Peter’s lips back on his, kiss him again. Can murmur, low, quiet enough without turning into a complete sap:

“I love you, trouble.”

“Oh,” Peter exhales, a little too loudly, then bounces back. Takes a few steps away from the bed, making Bucky prop himself up on his metal elbow, watching him with a mix of curiosity and an unhealthy dose of fear. “That’s—” He beams at Bucky. Blushes, which will never get old. “I am gonna go before you get an urge to take up knitting and adopt another cat. But—” he grins even wider. “Thanks.”

… Thanks?

It’s not so bad, having a cat. She’s a pain in the ass, sure, but she’s got a tail that makes for prime entertainment. When Sam plants himself on Bucky’s bed a few days later with coffee in one hand and cards in the other, the tail in question gets sat on, and Bucky doesn’t have to fake really laughing at a white fluff ball that weighs less than a bag of sugar bringing a two-hundred-pound soldier to his knees.

“Your cat’s possessed,” Sam grumbles, rubbing his scratched forearm, and starts shuffling cards over the blanket. Alpine, the victor, settles down on Peter’s pillow. “She’s got a real attitude problem. I said I was sorry.”

“Must have not meant it,” Bucky shrugs, sipping on the coffee and spotting a marked corner on one of the cards. “I know this deck. Whatcha playing at, Wilson?”

“Clint’s taking Peter to get the rest of the parts they need,” Sam chooses to ignore him, but Bucky’s the one who marked the deck in the first place, so it’s fair game. “I told him he drives like a maniac, but does anyone listen to me? Nope.”

Cards shuffle, and Nat joins them before the hand is dealt.

“Here,” she tosses a new deck onto Bucky’s lap, throws a couple of twenties into the pile, and attempts to make a move on Bucky’s coffee. Nice fucking try.

It’s easier to not be completely miserable when you’re surrounded by people who’ve mastered the fine art of not giving a damn. Bucky can’t put his finger on it, but Peter makes him... softer. Weaker. 

Later, when Bucky has successfully taken Sam for all the cash he had on him and his sunglasses, and Nat took Bucky for everything in his wallet, his drawers, and, possibly, the cat too, Peter bursts through the door, looking like he’s been through hell and back. He crawls onto the bed, past Sam and Nat who are perched on the edge, and all but collapses onto an unimpressed Alpine, clutching to her for dear life.

“He’s crazy,” Peter shares, opening one eye after squeezing a somewhat resisting cat for at least ten seconds. “I thought I was going to die.”

His mood comes and goes. Gets better, gets worse, then better again. Over and over. Until Bucky can finally shuffle around without wondering if the hole in his thigh will ever close or if the bruises all over his body will ever quit getting darker and darker. 

After that, it takes less than a week for Bucky to stop jonesing for something stronger than ibuprofen. 

Of all the fucked-up shit his brain could conjure, it’s always snow, and Bucky’s trapped in it again, neck-deep in that frozen hell, the whiteout swallowing the world.

He wakes up with his heart slamming against his chest. Sweaty, skin clammy and hot despite the lingering chill. Tries to remember where he is, when he is. His eyes snap open, but the room’s too dark to see much beyond the blurry outline of the ceiling. Bucky stares at it anyway, focusing on the cracks and stains. Not there. Not then. Just here.

He counts his heartbeats. One, two, three—steady, fucker. One, two—calm the fuck down.

Peter shifts, his hand sliding under Bucky’s t-shirt, settling against the scar on his side.

“Bad dream?” His voice is groggy, barely awake, and somehow, Peter’s nailed it. Nailed the timing, giving Bucky enough space to pull his shit together before asking.

“Uh-huh.” Bucky hugs him tighter, feeling Peter’s hand flatten against his ribs, the heat from it now radiating out faster. “Sorry for waking you up. Go back to sleep.”

Peter makes a disagreeing noise that’s halfway between a sigh and a yawn.

“It’s nearly morning,” he points out, and Bucky glances at the clock on the nightstand. Five-thirty. Peter’s internal clock is freakishly accurate, which Bucky’s got to admit is a little surprising. But then again, Peter’s always been full of surprises. “You should tell me about it.”

A lot of unnerving—this calm persistence. But Peter’s telling him it’s okay to unload, not forcing Bucky into it, and Bucky’s weirdly tempted.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter sounds almost annoyed, but no judgment there. No longer yawning, no longer sluggish. “Stop doing that.”

Bucky could play dumb, pretend he doesn’t know what Peter means by that, but who’s he kidding? He knows exactly what that's about.

“It's not that fun,” he doesn’t lie. “Want to hear about that one time Clint got shot in the ass instead?”

“No,” Peter’s frown presses against his shoulder. “Want to hear about what keeps you up at night. Also, please, he told me that story weeks ago.”

“Yeah?” Bucky isn’t shocked; Clint does take a special pride in taking one for the team. Literally. “Fine. Put some pants on.”

“Huh?” Peter moves, lifting himself up. “We going somewhere? You need props or something?”

“No props,” Bucky’s the first to swing his legs off the bed and flick the lamp on. “But my hair is not nearly long enough for you to braid it.”

Peter gives him the oddest look from where he is. But there’s no way in hell Bucky’s laying there, spilling his guts while wrapped up in blankets.

“Fine, but you are making me breakfast,” Peter slides off the bed too and grabs a pair of sweatpants from the chair, slipping into them faster than it takes Bucky to get dressed. He’s all smooth lines and quiet strength, and fuck, how did Bucky end up here, with this person who’s always there, always pushing enough, but never actually too much?

He fastens the string on his own sweats, but then pulls Peter to himself by his t-shirt, crams himself into his space. Wraps his arms around him, thick fleece under his skin when he moves his hands to grope his ass. They kissed a few more times when Bucky wasn’t too busy being a fucking downer, but haven’t gotten much further. And now that he’s standing on his two feet without needing to be held up, it gives Bucky ideas. Alright, he’s been having ideas for the last few days, balls more blue than the fading bruises, but nurse Parker has been playing hard to get. You rip a few stitches when bending over for a shoe once—

“Or we could stay here and—” Bucky doesn’t get to finish.

“Not a chance,” Peter interrupts, wriggling out. “Not when you are finally willing to share more than your last name. Move it. Now, where is your crutch? I swear it was somew—augh, shit. Found it.”

“Fuck this thing,” Bucky catches Peter by the waist. Gives him something to lean on while Peter hisses at his stubbed toe. “It’s retired. You want eggs?”

Peter does want eggs, as it turns out, and Bucky tells him while making them. He starts when he’s got the mini-fridge door open, rummaging through the cold abyss for supplies. One of the perks of not dying back in Siberia and gaining the dumbest nickname he hates—fridge raiding at five in the morning.

“Mission was a shitshow from the start.”

He grabs a carton and some milk, slaps the door shut. The bar’s quiet, save for the hum of the mini-fridge and the soft rustle of Peter settling down on the stool. Bucky’s made the same meal dozens of times before on that counter, and his hands work through the motions, making it easier to talk with his eyes occupied elsewhere.

“Orders came in, and before we knew it, we were shipping out, boots on the ground where the sun never fucking set.” Bucky flips the carton open, rolls his shoulders, shaking off the memory. Crack—egg meets bowl, a sharp split. The shell crumbles easily, like they all did when things went south.

“Got bad. I called for a retreat. Too late for myself, on time for others. Got captured.”

Bucky whisks the eggs, thinking about when things got real fucked. He skips the details, no point in laying it all out—Peter doesn’t need to hear about every scream. But the torture itself lasted so long, Bucky started wondering if time even existed anymore.

“Thought years had passed.”

His wrist flicks, the eggs frothing up in the bowl, and he can feel the phantom pain in his ribs, his fingers. The kind of pain that digs in and doesn’t let go, not even when you’re begging it to. You can’t be great at recovery as a general thing, he supposes, but months of waiting for the beatings to begin again as soon as he’s no longer dying would make the wait to simply get better a different kind of torture. He doesn't… can't talk about it. Hopes that one day he'll black it out for good.

Heat from the portable burner flares up when he turns it on, the blue flame licking the bottom of the pan. A hiss, and the butter melts. He pours the eggs in, watches them spread out, sizzle, and leak around the surface. There’s a small scratch on the right side of the pan that always burns the food. That’s how he got out.

Not because of some heroic escape plan or a daring rescue.

“Got lucky during a shift change; a stupid flaw in their security,” The luck you don’t count on, the luck that leaves you wondering when it’ll turn. “Thought… thought it was over. Thought it couldn’t get any worse. It wasn’t. It did.”

He zones out staring at the eggs, almost fucks it up when it’s time to flip them over. The scent of coffee hits his nose, pulls him back a bit, and Peter pushes a cup toward him, inhaling the steam from his own.

When Bucky slides the plate in front of Peter, he tosses a fork his way with a quick smirk and, “Dig in.” Loves him all the more for not needing to be told twice, scooping up a mouthful, humming with appreciation.

“You know what a Gulag is?” Bucky continues.

Peter nods, keeps eating. Good. Saves Bucky from having to give a history lesson.

“Ever wonder why they put ’em in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? Was clear the moment I got out and realized where I was. Just snow and more snow. No hope of getting your ass far on foot.”

Peter forks some eggs in and waits for Bucky to lean in and try. He does. Not bad.

“First two days—” he grabs a fork of his own and starts poking at the side of Peter’s plate, “—I was more worried about the blood I was leaving on the snow. Thought it’d be too visible, thought someone would follow the trail. Red on white, real subtle, right? Fuckin’ moron. Should have been worried about other things. Should’ve doubled back, tried to get what I needed to survive out there.”

He swallows a mouthful of his own and chases it down with coffee. Settles against the counter, mug in his right hand.

“Ate snow for water. That’s something they don’t tell you—how it doesn’t help. Makes you colder, weakens you more. If you can melt it, sure, but who the fuck’s got a campfire going in the middle of a death march? I had clothes. A gun with two bullets. Nothing else. Anyway, ditched the gun when starvation kicked in. Couldn’t even carry it, couldn’t even carry myself properly.”

Peter keeps eating, silent, eyes on Bucky as if he’s trying to memorize every word. It’s… something. That’s—

“After a while, I was almost hoping they’d find me. Just to be fed again.”

He sets the cup down, empty, grabs Peter’s with a cheeky smile.

“Hypothermia was setting in by then. Mind was slipping, body shutting down. Then someone found me. Got lucky again.” Bucky produces a humorless laugh, noticing Peter had now stopped chewing. “Thought it was a hunter at first. Looked maybe… East Asian. Said his name was Sergei. Lied, of course, his Russian was worse than mine. Took me in, patched me up. I kept… kept waiting for the military to show up and crash his cabin. Got the hell out of there as soon as I could stand. Took his rifle, his supplies. Thought about taking his life too, but rolled the dice, didn’t feel right. He died anyway—Yori’s son. Looked him up… after. He was doing some research or somethin’ out there. Went missing. You know… missing.”

Bucky moves Peter’s half-finished plate to the side with, “Well, if you don’t want it,” and Clint, who’s been lurking in the doorway to upstairs for the past minute, makes his move, grabbing the stool next to Peter.

“What happened after that?” Peter asks, reaching over the bar to swap Clint’s fork for a clean one. “Savage.”

Clint makes a face. Bucky shrugs.

“What do you think? Cold. Snow. Just… kept moving. Alone. Scared shitless. Made it to a small village. Got a hold of a radio. Sent a message, moved on. Couldn't stay there.”

“And then I found him,” Clint pipes up, having hoovered down the eggs in a nanosecond. “Got more of this?”

“Bullshit,” Nat walks down the stairs in her obnoxiously skimpy shorts—damn, Bucky might have eyes only for Peter, in theory, but he’s still a man—and sits on the other side of Peter. “Wasn’t Clint. Wasn’t me either.”

“Sam?” Peter asks, coming around the bar to put another pot of coffee on.

“Nope,” speaking of the devil. Sam yawns, walking in, dragging a hand over his face, obviously still trying to wake the fuck up. He plops into Peter’s spot, stealing it, joining them. Which is fine by Bucky, because he’s suddenly freezing his ass off and needs a human heater. And there ain’t nothing like a compact furnace that Bucky gets to press into front-to-back. He hugs Peter from behind, doesn’t care that he’s getting in the way and restricting his movements while Peter diligently empties the grinder and pours new beans in. Doesn't care it's probably needy as hell.

“I ask again, is there more?” Clint clacks a fork on the empty plate. “Seconds or what?”

Nat gets up. Moves around the bar too, and everyone watches. Sam and Clint with mild horror, Peter with vague interest—if Bucky’s reading the one visible side of his face right—and Bucky smirks. This is gonna be good.

She grabs the pan, tosses in some butter, and immediately cranks the heat up way too high. The butter doesn’t simply melt; screams for mercy. Starts bubbling as if it’s about to jump out of the pan and run for its life. Sam’s eyes widen, and Clint twitches, likely considering making a break for it too. Bucky rubs his cheek against Peter’s.

“Thanks,” he tells him. Grateful. For listening. For existing. For putting up with Bucky's shit.

Nat cracks the first egg.

A few stray pieces of shell join the egg in the pan, sinking into the rapidly browning butter. She jabs at it with the spatula, and Bucky can feel Peter smile, his interest turning into amusement. The edges of the egg go from golden to burnt in the time it takes Nat to reach for salt. Impressive, really.

“So, who did find you?” Peter puts his hands over Bucky’s arms, which are crossed over his torso. Leans with more of his weight into Bucky, relaxing.

“Steve,” Bucky replies, the name out before he really thinks about it.

“Could’ve been anyone,” Nat cuts in, waving the spatula, a piece of raw egg dangling off the edge. “We had four choppers in the air.”

“Steve,” Sam echoes, shaking his head. “Even if it wasn’t his chopper. Wouldn’t let it go. Called in every favor, made us do the same. Kept saying, ‘he’s alive.’” Sam frowns too. “Was right, I guess. I still can’t—”

Bucky doesn’t say anything; watches as Nat flips the egg. It folds over itself, a sad, wrinkled mess that’s somehow still burning around the edges. That takes a special kind of skill. But Nat doesn’t look bothered. She never does.

Peter shifts, turning his head to look at Bucky, but Bucky’s still focused on the pan, on the egg that’s now more charred than edible. Steve’s name is hanging in the air worse than cigarette smoke, curling around the room, stinking up the place. Sometimes Bucky can’t believe it either. Steve found him, didn’t he? Even after Bucky had given up.

Nat finally plates her creation. Sets it down in front of Clint with a flourish.

“No,” Clint pushes it away. “And I am—” he gestures at Nat. “—tapping all that. But, yeah, not a chance.”

Sam’s face twists, eyes flicking from Clint to Nat and back again. 

“Ah, shit, not you too,” he grimaces.

Less than an hour later, Bucky’s staring at the laptop, not believing his eyes. Reaches over to physically close Peter’s gaping mouth with his fingers. This is the second time they’re watching the video, since the first time didn’t quite register. 

On the screen, Tony is beating the ever-loving shit out of… some massive robot monstrosity. The robot’s getting trashed, pieces flying off, the video cutting to explosion, and then Tony steps out of the metal red-and-gold suit, dusts off his hands, and—because of course, he fucking does—bows for the cameras.

Bucky presses replay. Peter’s fingers reach over to pop Bucky’s mouth closed too. Touché.

What. The. Fuck.

“What the actual fuck?” Clint’s voice rings through the stunned silence as he emerges from the back. Bucky looks up, catching him pocketing his phone. “Did you see?”

Nat doesn’t even flinch. She’s hunched over the Pac-Man, laser-focused, fingers flying over the controls. Probably convinced Clint’s trying to mess with her head, throw her off her game so she’ll miss out on beating his high score. Like that’s gonna happen.

Sam, perched on the windowsill with his phone in hand, lets out a nervous laugh. Bucky turns to check if he’s alright. He gets it. Thought he was losing it for a second there too. The neon light from the S.H.I.E.L.D. sign outside spills through the glass, casting a fucked-up halo around Sam, but otherwise, he seems fine. Expression of ‘What the fuck’ also, but without the courtesy of words. A bit shocked, like the rest of them, bar Nat—no fucks given there.

Sam locks onto Bucky’s eyes and waves his phone:

“I need to get laid. Yesterday. Is Tinder still a thing?”

As good a response as any to what just happened.

“Sure, you’ll get right on that,” Bucky mutters, still processing.

“He’s really hot,” Peter exhales, tilting his head at the screen. “Like, really hot.”

“I am straight,” Sam states. Bucky huffs out a laugh. Presses replay one more time.

“Had his poster on your wall when you were a kid or somethin’?” Bucky still nods in agreement, despite the barely-there twist of jealousy. Because, well, Bucky might have had a poster too, back in the day. Years before he first saw Tony Stark in real life, with a hole in his chest and a car battery keeping him alive.

“Yup,” Peter tilts his head the other way, mesmerized, not that Bucky can blame him. “Holy shit. Did this just—”

The door to the back slams closed behind him, and Bucky pulls out his phone, fingers already dialing Tony’s burner. The phone rings. One ring. Two. Bucky counts them off out of habit. By the fourth, Tony picks up. Bucky didn’t actually think he would.

“Stark Industries: We make better toys than Santa, and we don’t judge if you’re on the naughty list.”

Bucky blinks.

“I—” Words fail him, which isn’t exactly a first, but it’s still annoying as shit. He coughs, trying to reel in the scattered pieces of his brain. “Is it done?”

Did you really just blow up a guy on national TV?

“It’s done.”

Tony explains. Bucky listens. The lack of emotion is almost disturbing.

“We’re still staying put, I take it?” They are. He knows the answer before Tony even says it.

“Yeah, sit tight. I’ve got a few more things to handle on this end. Gimme a few days. When I’m back in New York, I’ll hit you up.”

Tony hangs up before Bucky can respond. Bucky stares at the phone for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen as if it’s going to magically give him the answers he’s looking for. It doesn’t. He slips it into his pocket as he lowers himself onto one of the wooden crates stacked in the corner. Flexes his metal arm powered by the same reactor that’s apparently sitting in Tony’s chest.

This... this is way above his pay grade. Hell, it’s above anyone’s pay grade.

It’s still early when Bucky steps out of the shower. The towel’s rough against his skin as he drags it over his chest, but barely stings when it brushes against the stitches. Healing up nicely, even if it never ceases to amaze Bucky how something as small as a blade can cause so much fucking damage. 

He slaps a fresh bandage over his thigh, the adhesive sticking to his still-damp skin, and stretches his neck, shaking off the ache. The improvised cast is off, wrist’s moves like it never got messed up in the first place. Then brushes his teeth, feeling every bit of the wear and tear when bent over the sink. Rubs a hand over his jaw, the stubble scratching against his palm. Thinks about shaving, but gives it the mental finger. Peter seems to like it.

Bucky strolls out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low enough to piss off a nun and runs straight into him.

“Finally,” Peter rasps out, barreling into him so fast the door barely has time to close before Bucky’s slammed against it, head yanked down into a kiss.

Bucky’s game.

Peter’s mouth is on his, hard and fast. Impatience is a turn-on, and who needs talking when you can just skip to the good part? Not Bucky. His hands grip Peter’s hips, and he spins them around, shoving Peter up. Solid thud, not too gentle, but Peter seems into it, fingers digging into Bucky’s neck. He moans, licks Bucky’s tongue, sucks on it, and Bucky barely holds back the urge to rip him apart.

“Stark?” Bucky grins, fucks with him a little, stirring the pot.

“Flying robots,” Peter blurts out, chasing Bucky’s mouth, standing on his toes, trying to even the height difference—yeah, that’s cute. “Life's being weird. You’re more or less better, and I am getting a carpal tunnel from all the jerking off in the shower, so—”

Bucky doesn’t need a play-by-play, broad strokes are good enough; whatever floats Peter’s boat. Leans in close, lips grazing Peter’s neck, just to tease. Peter fidgets, slips a hand under Bucky’s towel with zero hesitation. Wraps it around Bucky’s dick, grabs him like he means it, firmly.

“No, for real, come on,” he pleads, desperate, as if he wasn’t the one that’s been leaving Bucky high and dry. “Kiss me.”

Bucky was planning on it. Presses in closer, one hand moving up to tangle in Peter’s hair, other still glued to his hip. Peter twists his fist around the head of his dick, applying just the right amount of pressure. Strokes him. Fuck. There’s a brief flicker of something in Bucky’s chest—possessive. He wants to make Peter feel so good he’ll forget anyone else even exists. Not like him to feel insecure about that.

“You tell me what you need, yeah?” Bucky asks against Peter’s lips, and Peter gets him. Always does.

“Yeah, yes,” Peter starts pushing him away and towards the bed, ripping the towel off, having a proper look. Bucky smirks, a bit smug, raises an eyebrow, half hard already, Peter's hand on his dick looking rather small. “Shit, you’re so big.”

He launches himself at Bucky's mouth again, and Bucky groans into the kiss. Can’t think straight, doesn’t want to. Still does, though. About how Peter probably said it to a hundred—

He fists Peter’s hair, annoyed that it’s working on him. Annoyed that his mind went there as soon as—

Peter lets him go, gives him a small push, and Bucky's back hits the mattress. 

Peter stays standing, taking off his t-shirt and dropping it on the floor. No seduction, only urgency as he fumbles with his pants, eyes locked on Bucky, licking his lips. The sweats follow the t-shirt, kicked off with zero grace, almost taking him down with them. He bends over, fights with his socks out of Bucky's view, then shoots him a wink that’s more cocky than cute. Bucky can’t help but pump himself off once or twice, not-so-subtly motioning him over.

“Alright, listen up,” Peter climbs on top of him, all wiry muscle and flushed skin, serious look on his face, possibly about to give a lecture judging by the tone. “You’re gonna call me names, okay? Doll, baby, sweetheart—whatever. If you want. I’ll like it, I swear. You take every single one, and make them yours, deal?”

Bucky’s brain stalls quicker than a cheap engine but he nods while Peter settles above Bucky’s dick, maybe overshooting the mark a bit, rubs his hands on Bucky's chest. Eyes wild, but all kinds of adorable, the way he’s rambling.

“And don’t overthink it if I get loud. I’m loud, alright? Always have been. Although it depends. We’ll see; the mood comes and goes. Either way, it would suck if you think I’m putting on a show.” He rattles it out, pauses, but Bucky’s not about to interrupt. Might not even be breathing at this point.

“And. Hmm. I know what you must be thinking. It's just. Well. It's probably normal to think that? But. Don't? Ugh, I am not explaining it right, had a whole disclaimer ready, but you are naked and so you, and I want this, don’t want anyone else—maybe Tony Stark, but he’s Tony Stark, kidding, relax, sorta—just. If you start to think stupid shit, think instead about how I’ve been climbing the walls since you walked into that restaurant, sat down, all broody, growly, so fucking hot.” Now that really gets Bucky’s attention. “I’ve been half gone since the day I met you, so freaked out I was catching feelings that I pushed you away and nearly fucked everything up. Like. Come on, you are—you are—fuck, Bucky, you are a badass with a metal arm, who takes care of me and loves me back, and how is this even my life?”

Peter stops, doesn’t make another move. Sits there on top of Bucky, light as a feather, his naked ass pressing into Bucky’s hip bones, thighs squeezing the sides of Bucky's ribs. Waits. Bucky’s not exactly the type to get thrown off his game, but the way Peter’s laying it all out there, it’s—

Bucky doesn’t even know. Convenient? Thoughtful? Honest? Whatever it is, sure nice to have it out in the open and out of the way.

“All this time, doll?” Bucky finally asks, seeing how Peter’s gonna react. His body shivers slightly at the word—yeah, Bucky can definitely work with this. Then Peter nods, bites his lip, as if he’s got something else to say, but clams up instead. That’s fine, Bucky’s got the idea.

“Peter, darlin’,” Bucky mutters, gripping Peter’s waist with his metal hand, pulling him down to himself by his chin with the other. “Could’ve just asked.”

“I’m asking now,” Peter whispers against Bucky’s lips. “Fuck. Please. I—”

Bucky kisses his cheek, then his neck, trailing up to his ear, enjoying how Peter trembles when Bucky's breath brushes against it. “You gonna tell me what you really want right now, baby? Mmm?”

“Oh, god,” Peter grinds down against Bucky’s abs. “I—Fuck. Want me to suck you off? Please.”

Bucky’s dick twitches at the idea, but that’s not what he's after.

“I’m askin’ what you want.” He licks the shell of Peter’s ear, thumbs the soft skin on the inside of his thigh. “Not what you think I want.”

Peter freezes up for a second. Just a flicker, a blink—if Bucky wasn't paying attention, he’d miss it. Then Peter goes back to running his hands over Bucky’s chest, fingers tangling with the chain. Keeps grinding himself against Bucky, dragging his dick against Bucky’s stomach. Bucky pulls back, shifts both hands to cup his ass—skin softer than velvet, and for a second, almost forgets how much this matters. Peter's eyes drop to the side, lashes fluttering down. Yeah, hiding.

Not used to someone wanting what he wants, not just what he’s good at giving? Bucky hates that. Something they'll have to work on.

“Bucky…” Peter’s voice comes out shaky, the cocky bravado from earlier gone, leaving something almost fragile. Bucky frowns.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, kissing him, gentle, holding back. “Come on. Tell me what you like, I’ll tell you what I like. It’s easy. No pressure. I’m still half-broken, so really, no pressure. Might make me eat my words about fucking you real good. Doesn’t have to happen at all, if you’re not into it. Come on, love—”

Peter swallows hard. Hesitates.

“Kiss me for a while?” eventually asks, tugging on Bucky’s tags, hand sliding up his metal arm. “Hold me for a bit? Let me—let me come like this? On top of you? I—” Peter makes a point to grind down on Bucky again, moaning quietly. Does it one more time, needy and fucking precious. “Then… then use your metal fingers to stretch me when I’m all soft? Let me ride you as slow as I want? I—”

It knocks the wind out of Bucky. He closes his eyes for a spell, gets his bearings, opens them up, and then smiles because he’s just won the lottery. So fucking simple. Pulls Peter in for another kiss, all that mushy, sappy shit he swore he’d never do creeping in. I’m here, I’ve got you, just say the word. Jesus. Right.

Straight into sap territory, but who gives a crap when Peter’s body starts to relax, the tension melting out of his shoulders as he gives in to the kiss, letting Bucky take the lead. Somehow way better than all the quick and rough that’s been building up for months.

If Bucky wasn’t so into him, his mind might wander down the what-the-fuck-is-this-even road, but for now, it’s hitting just right. He kisses Peter for another minute or so before checking with one hand under the pillow, fingers brushing past the stock of an unloaded gun—something Bucky needs to work on himself, yet again—knocking into a loose magazine and a few other odds and ends until he finds what he’s looking for. Lube. Didn’t plan for this for today, but Peter seems to have. Tactical preparedness—Bucky approves.

“Alright, alright,” he pulls out the tube, catching Peter’s grin—half-wicked, half-shy. Lethal combo, that. “If you’re gonna use me as a slip ’n slide, might as well do it right.”

He snaps the cap open and grabs Peter’s hand, squeezing a cold line right into his palm. Peter laughs into the next kiss, then slathers the lube everywhere between them—more clinical than sexy, but Bucky’s not about to critique the technique. Then Peter moans louder, almost purring, his ass bouncing against Bucky’s dick on the way down. Not enough to do much, but that’s beside the point; not the point.

“Ah-h, fuck,” Peter starts nipping at Bucky’s neck, licking, biting, leaving hickeys—what they are they, high schoolers?—grinding into him in earnest, and Bucky hums, deep and low through another smile. Never had someone get off on him like this, but hey, he’s not complaining.

Maybe there’s some psychological rabbit hole about why Peter wants this specifically, some deep-seated shit buried in that beautiful head of his, but Bucky’s not in the mood to dig into that. Could be anything—control or something darker Bucky doesn’t want to touch right now. Or ever. Regardless, that’s for shrinks and people without the hottest piece of ass on top of them to worry about. Bucky feels too good to give a damn. Peter’s grinding down on him, breath hitching every time Bucky’s hands squeeze his ass, chasing something just out of reach, and Bucky’s barely lifting a finger; just lying there, letting every sound Peter makes go straight to his dick. What’s not to fucking like?

Soon enough, Peter’s panting, quick and shallow, biting down on his lower lip to keep from crying out too loudly when he stops going at Bucky’s neck and instead hovers above him. Not that Bucky would mind the crying out part. Wants him to be loud.

“Fuck, Bucky… just, yeah,” Peter gasps, and, sure, maybe it’s taking every ounce of control Bucky has not to just flip them and take what he wants, but the slow burn that starts in Bucky’s gut, spreads through every nerve and sets his whole body on fire has his head spinning. Ain’t bad at all. He’s not wasting brain cells on why Peter’s so needy, just soaking up those sweet, broken sounds every time Peter shifts on top of him.

Peter’s getting there, that much is clear. Fast. Fucking himself on Bucky’s abs, hips moving in a way that tells Bucky he’s barely holding it together, nails starting to scratch Bucky’s chest. Stings a bit. Bucky ignores that, lets Peter take what he needs, and holy shit, does he seem to need it.

“Come on, baby, you’re almost there,” Bucky urges, and Peter responds with a choked-off moan, his pace faltering. 

“Shit, Bucky, I—” Peter’s voice is wrecked, raw, and Bucky doesn’t let him finish. Reaches up, kisses those trembling lips, swallows whatever mess Peter was gonna say.

“Could have just asked to fuck me, I’m already on my back,” Bucky smirks into the kiss, and Peter moans in a way that’s pure fucking music. Bullseye, Bucky guesses. At some point. 

And that’s it. Barely takes anything. Peter shudders, goes stiff for a split second, then he’s gone, shaking, hips stuttering as he comes between them, gasping into Bucky’s mouth, falling apart over him. Bucky keeps him there, holds him tight as Peter’s whole world collapses, riding the waves until it’s all over.

“Oh,” Peter sags, and to Bucky, he’s all soft and pliant, completely spent and satisfied, even with the actual mess they’re lying in now. So, no deep thoughts here. No need for any.

Peter tries to move—too fucking fast—but Bucky’s got other plans. No way is he letting him go yet. He tightens his grip, keeping Peter pinned against his chest, waiting out the last of the tremors still rippling through him. 

Only when Peter’s finally still, breathing closer to something resembling not hyperventilating, does Bucky let him roll away. 

Peter stumbles off the bed, legs visibly wobbly, and Bucky very much enjoys the view as Peter bends over to grab the towel that got ditched on the floor earlier. Peter’s face is flushed, pink creeping up from his neck to his ears. Cute. Real fucking cute. All business now, focused on cleaning up the mess on Bucky’s torso. Efficient, if a bit awkward, not saying a word, probably trying not to think too hard about the fact that he just came all over Bucky’s abs. Kinda all Bucky can think about, though, if he’s honest.

Still no complaints. The towel’s damp, a little scratchy—perfect, really—gets the job done too, soaking up the come, the lube. Peter works quickly, keeps his head down, but steals a look or two at Bucky from beneath his eyelashes, big brown eyes still glassy from the come-down. Bucky could eat him up and ask for seconds.

Once the mess is more or less gone, Peter chucks the towel back onto the floor. It lands with a wet slap, and Bucky snorts. Peter’s already onto the next thing, busy little bee that he is. He’s digging through the crumpled blankets, muttering something Bucky doesn’t catch. Bucky’s content to just watch, head propped up on his hand, ogling Peter’s ass in the air. Yeah, this—this Bucky could get used to. He could help, but where’s the fun in that?

Peter finds the discarded lube with a triumphant little noise, and Bucky can’t resist a half-laugh. He grabs Peter by the elbow, yanking him back into him, hard. Kisses him for so long Peter starts to protest. Fine, be that way. Bucky’s still laughing as Peter squirts a generous amount of lube onto his metal fingers, rubbing it in with way too much focus. Adds some more. Bucky’s louder laugh—can’t stop, fuck—earns him a light punch in the side. Ow. That blush of Peter’s hasn’t faded either, spreading down his neck as he settles back on top of Bucky again.

“Now, now,” Peter demands, wiggling his hips in a way that’s more obscene than it has any right to be. Then reaches over Bucky, fishing around for something else. Comes back with a shiny condom wrapper, waving it like it’s a fucking victory flag. If Bucky thought too hard about any of this, he’d probably think it’s the most ridiculous thing. But somehow… normal. Not two people with more baggage than they know what to do with. 

Peter rips the condom open with his teeth, flashes those pearly whites, then reaches back and blindly rolls it onto Bucky’s dick. Fuck. Bucky’s so hard he’s practically leaking, and too busy closing his eyes just for a second, trying to keep it together at Peter’s touch to fully appreciate the skill involved. Then Peter’s fingers wrap around Bucky’s wrist, guiding the metal to his ass, and Bucky follows, no questions asked, pressing those cold fingertips against Peter’s hole, wishing only he could feel more with them.

He takes in the sight of Peter perched on top of him, all flushed skin and half-lidded eyes. Tells himself not to rush it, no matter how much he wants to. Can’t wait to get inside him. But Stark tech or not, it’s still tech, and Bucky knows better than anyone how dangerous that shit can be if you don’t handle it right. Last thing he’s gonna do is screw this up. He’s not about to let that happen here. 

Bucky grazes along the edge of Peter’s hole, teasing, not pushing. Enough to make Peter shiver, a little gasp flying off his lips. Would kill to see it up close, having to stretch his arm to reach properly, but there’s something to having Peter on top him, soft and relaxed, that’s pretty fucking great too.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky dips the tip of his index finger in, feels that tight ring give, and holds Peter back from pushing down—greedy bee. “Easy, sweetheart. You wanna enjoy this, right?”

He adds a bit more pressure, slides in deeper, and Peter’s whole body responds. Peter leans down for another kiss, opening up himself wider, and the kiss leaves Bucky almost dizzy. Very sneaky on Peter’s part, but Bucky’s not above more teasing, wants to see Peter squirm. Keeps it slow, deliberate. A solid rhythm, in and out, not even a knuckle deep.

“Feel okay, doll?” Bucky knows damn well it does; he can tell it in the way Peter’s muscles flutter around his finger, in how Peter’s own fingers dig into his forearm, but he wants to hear it. Wants Peter to say it.

“Y-yeah,” Peter wraps his arms around Bucky’s head, shaking on top of him, trying to move his hips in that needy, almost pleading way, desperate for more of that cold, hard metal inside him. Bucky’s not giving in yet, though. Smirks, drawing this out, making it last. Slow. Real slow. He pulls the finger out completely, pressing it against Peter’s hole again, just circling the rim, coating it with lube.

“You’re gonna wait?” Bucky murmurs. “Gonna let me take my time, sweetheart?”

Peter moans, frustrated but compliant, kisses Bucky, licking into his mouth, whimpering while Bucky keeps teasing, only the tip of one metal finger pressing in before pulling back.

“You like that, huh?” Bucky whispers, feeling that tight ring of muscle give easier, earning another delicious sound from Peter. “You want more?”

“Please,” Peter breathes out, almost sobbing, still trying to roll those hips, trying to take what Bucky’s holding back. Bucky hums, finally pushing in past the knuckle.

Tight as hell. Almost makes Bucky regret not using his flesh hand. He tells him that too.

“You’re so damn tight. Gonna have to work you open nice and slow.”

Peter whimpers again, louder this time, hips bucking slightly as Bucky starts to move, still with just that one finger, curling it inside, searching for a spot that’ll drive Peter wild. When he finds it, Peter jerks in his arms, crying out as his body trembles, and Bucky chuckles.

“There it is,” he says, adding a second finger, slow, gentle, stretching Peter inch by inch. “Just relax and let me take care of you. Okay?”

“Shit,” Peter curses, moans more, and Bucky grins wider.

Yeah, that’s what he likes to hear. Not exactly a conversation, but Bucky gets the gist. He keeps teasing until Peter’s a writhing mess on top of him, until three fingers are sliding in and out easily, and, fuck, okay, Peter was made for this.

“Now, now, now,” Peter’s head is thrown back, his pretty dick bobbing up and down, hips rocking despite Bucky's steady grip holding him mostly in place. “Stop playing. Give it to me, please, Bucky, please. Don’t make me beg.”

He’s already begging.

Peter’s cracking, and Bucky would be more smug if he wasn’t just as desperate. He leans in to kiss Peter’s jaw, sucking a mark right where it meets his neck, then drags his fingers out and replaces them with his dick, the head pressing against that stretched-out hole, warm and inviting even through the rubber. He takes note of every reaction, every shift in Peter’s body.

“Shh, baby,” Bucky says with a bit of an edge, really having to hold Peter’s hips now. “Don’t wanna break you. You gonna be good, or you gonna do somethin’ stupid? Like you said, I ain’t that small, and you are—ah, fuck.”

Bucky’s head lolls back when Peter shoves his hands away and starts easing down on his own. Just down. 

Doesn’t take prisoners, this one.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” Peter orders, all bossy, and Bucky wouldn’t dream of it.

Wouldn’t even think of dreaming. He might’ve forgotten his own damn name right now, but yeah, whatever Peter wants, Peter gets. Peter’s in charge, and Bucky’s just the lucky bastard following orders, like the good soldier that he is. He steps on the urge to thrust up and meet him halfway, and Peter’s mouth parts in that perfect O, the softest gasp slipping out. 

He sinks down on Bucky’s dick, inch by torturous inch, and if Bucky had some kind of plan for this, he sure as hell forgot it now too. He’s buried deep, and Peter’s just sitting there, taking his sweet time adjusting, waiting until the burn melts into pleasure. Time’s a fucking blur. Bucky’s lost in it, in the way Peter’s body wraps around him, that heat, that tightness.

“Still hurts a bit, but fuck it,” Peter mutters, breathy, and locks Bucky’s hands to his own chest, holding them tight, using him for leverage as he starts to move.

“Don't be stupid, I’m already impressed,” Bucky grinds out.

“Shut up,” Peter tells him, a sly smile curling his lips. And, fuck, does it work for Bucky. Peter lifts himself up, barely an inch or two, then sinks back down. He licks his lips, throws Bucky a look that’s downright sinful. Does it again. Damn. It’s a bit agonizing. A lot fucking perfect.

“You like that?” Peter’s voice is shaky, but there’s still a smirk on his face that tells Bucky he already knows the answer. Smug little shit.

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps out. He runs his hands down Peter’s chest, thumbs over his nipples. That gets a reaction, small shifts that are monumental. Tiny increments of up and down that make Bucky feel each like a fucking earthquake. Too good.

“You’re not gonna move,” Peter states, making it clear.

“Not a fucking inch,” Bucky agrees. Hell, he’d stay like this forever if Peter wanted him to.

“Great,” murmurs Peter, almost absentminded, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he pulls up until only the head of Bucky’s dick is still inside him, then starts that slow descent again. No rush, no hurry, so good at this. It makes Bucky sweat. Not from exertion—just from holding back. Those eyes half-lidded and dark, flicking to and away from Bucky as if daring him to move. He seems to know exactly how to push Bucky's buttons. Bucky’s okay with that. More than okay.

Peter keeps it up, dragging it out, making Bucky feel every fucking second. Pauses so many times, just sitting there with Bucky buried up to his balls. Then he grinds those hips, up and down, so goddamn slow that Bucky wants to scream. Has Bucky shaking with it. And it’s—

A lot. It’s just a lot. The daylight streaming through the cracked blinds, their shitty bedroom with the peeling paint, the boxes of Peter’s crap half unpacked because who the fuck knows where to put them. And Bucky’s not a man who’s ever been good at handling feelings. Peter creeped up on him—more dangerous than a sniper in the dead of night—then hit; hit hard. Peter’s on top of him, hot and heady, throwing him these looks as if Bucky’s the only thing tethering him to the ground—well, his dick is definitely doing that job—and Bucky’s drowning. He’s in love, no fucking doubt, but it’s the kind of love that carves you open and leaves you bleeding out, and he’s got no clue what to do about it.

Bucky just… wants to give him everything. Would tear the world apart for him. Just not the guy with the right flowery words. Instead the guy who fucks up and then maybe does something halfway decent to make up for it. But all of this is going down, and Bucky can’t just do nothing.

Doesn’t want to do nothing either. Christ, he wants to—

His hand moves on its own, reaching for the chain. The tags had slid off, now resting against his metal shoulder. They’ve been around his neck for so long they’re a part of him now, in some ways more so than even the scars. And it’s not like he owes the government shit anymore, not like those tags mean jack to anyone but him.

Peter freezes when he sees Bucky’s fingers wrap around the chain. Bucky hesitates for a second, doubt crawling up his spine, but fuck it. 

Bucky yanks the chain over his head, the metal tags clinking together. Half-expects Peter to back out, to say something that’ll make Bucky feel like the dumbass he knows he is being, but Peter just stares.

Bucky doesn’t say anything himself—what the hell could he say? That’s sorta the idea. He just leans up, slips the chain over Peter’s head, lets the cool metal settle against Peter’s chest. The tags dangle there, catching the light, and for a second, Bucky’s pretty sure his heart’s stopped. It might as well say property of Bucky Barnes, and isn’t that a thought to chew on. Impulsive and more than possessive.

Peter’s fingers find the tags, touching them as if they’re made of something more valuable than just a bit of stamped metal. For a moment, nothing else exists but the way Peter’s hand trembles slightly as he grips those tags, the way his eyes start to shine as if he’s holding back something too big to let out. Then Peter’s lips twitch, a small, shaky smile breaking through brighter than the sunrise.

“You,” Peter mouths. “You really…”

“Yeah,” Bucky cuts him off, kisses him, back straining without support, almost embarrassed by how much he’s putting out there. “Kinda means—”

“I know what it means,” Peter murmurs, sliding his hands down Bucky’s sides, fingers tracing the ridges of his scars. “Means I’m yours. Means you’re mine.”

Smart little bee. Bucky lets his back drop onto the mattress, head hitting the pillow, and Peter follows him down, pressing himself against Bucky, slipping up on his dick, kissing him fast and frantic. Doesn’t give Bucky much choice but to bend his knee for leverage, thrusting up slow and deep, making them both groan into the kiss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he does it again, and then once more. Not rushing it, taking his time, feeling every inch of it with Peter wearing his tags, moaning on top of him, skin warm and sweaty. “Sorry, I—”

“Shut up,” Peter cuts him off, shaky but firm. And judging by the way he meets Bucky halfway, working his dick, Bucky suspects he’s doing just fine. “Keep going.”

Bucky swings his hips up, carving himself into this pliant body, and Peter doesn’t complain, just moans louder, louder, as if he’s honest-to-god getting paid for it. Bucky doesn’t mind. Doesn’t care—he savors it.

“Fuck,” he mutters between clenched teeth. “Fuck. Peter. Feels so good inside you.”

Just a bit faster, a bit harder, and Peter’s back arches, his hips meeting Bucky’s in a rhythm that’s starting to get frantic.

Peter’s wearing Bucky’s tags. His fucking tags. Bucky can’t stop thinking about it. He fucks into him, owning every inch of that tight ass, kisses his face, bites down on his jaw, the bed creaking beneath them. Peter’s sobbing now, that high-pitched, broken sound, as Bucky shifts his angle, hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

“Oh, god, please don’t stop, don’t—” Peter chokes out, and Bucky’s all too happy to keep pushing. He thrusts up again, harder this time, just enough to make Peter cry out, and fuck, if that sound isn’t the best thing Bucky’s ever heard.

Bucky’s close. He can feel it, the pressure building up, his balls zinging with it already, can’t stop it from happening. He holds back with everything he’s got, waiting for Peter to tip over into that freefall, because the second he does, Bucky’s going with him.

“Come on, doll,” he rasps, slipping his hand between them, reaching for Peter’s dick. “Let me feel you, I—”

He barely touches him, fingers brushing the head, and Peter’s whole body seizes, clenching around Bucky so hard. Ah, fuck. Fuck.

“Bucky, Bucky,” Peter’s mewing into Bucky’s ear, his ass spasming around Bucky’s dick. “Oh, fuck, love you, love you so much, god, ohh—”

It’s a sick sort of satisfaction, knowing he’s got this kind of power over someone. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? That Peter sees him. Not the Winter Soldier, not the fucked-up mess he’s been, but him. Bucky Barnes. The guy who’s so happily screwed by feelings he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky groans, his right hand coated in Peter’s come, his metal one gripping Peter’s ass so tight it’s definitely leaving bruises, pumping into him, his dick milked for all it’s worth.

Bucky’s skin is cooling down, sweat drying sticky on his chest, and the ceiling’s got this strange blur to it, like it’s slowly sinking closer. He’s not worried. Couldn’t give a shit if the whole world caved in right now. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t think he can.

Peter’s draped over him, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Nothing better to do than play connect-the-dots with Bucky’s scars, apparently. A curious one, always digging, never knowing when to stop. He hits a raised line near Bucky’s collarbone, and because Peter’s Peter, he asks:

“This one?”

“Shrapnel. Clint rigged to blow up a warehouse in Prague. I was too slow getting out.”

Peter hums, might be taking notes or something, filing that away for future reference, Bucky’s not checking, and those fingers drift lower, finding a jagged scar across Bucky’s ribs. “What about this?”

“Rio. Knife fight. Close quarters.” Bucky keeps his tone flat, if not relaxed, but there’s a hint of something there—respect, maybe. The guy was quick, after all. Bucky still won, but it wasn’t a sure thing. Warm fingers skim over his abdomen, pausing at a round, puckered scar near his side. 

“And this one?”

“Bullet. Didn’t go clean through. Afghanistan. Same place as the arm.” Bucky’s metal hand twitches, muscle memory doing its thing. Some pains you never really forget.

Peter’s quiet for a second, letting it all sink in, then his hand slides lower, fingers brushing Bucky’s thigh, stopping right by the bandage.

“Steve,” Peter doesn’t ask. He confirms.

Bucky knows where this is going, and he’s not exactly thrilled about it. Not that he doesn’t want Peter to know. Just doesn’t want to talk about what happened. That fresh wound says it all, in a way—betrayal, more pain, the shit that lingers even when it shouldn’t.

This is the part where most people would back off. Peter’s… not most people. He waits. Patient. Would actually make a good sniper.

“Okay,” Bucky sighs, puts his right hand on Peter’s ass, dragging his fingers over the soft skin.

Tells him everything.

Piece by piece, ripping out stitches one by one, poking at a scab that never healed right.

Starts with the basics. How a dumb kid from Brooklyn, sporting a chip on his shoulder the size of Coney Island, found himself in the army. The way he became a sniper, picking off targets from a mile away, pulling the trigger and watching lives snuff out through a scope. How there was something darkly satisfying about it—not that Bucky expands too much on that. Doesn’t want to spook him. Just moves on, as if becoming a cold-blooded killer is the natural progression.

Black-ops, also naturally, came next. You’re good at one thing, they mold you into something worse. He talks about meeting Clint and Nat, their first joint mission in some mosquito-infested jungle hellhole where even the air tries to kill you. Clint, the prick who could hit a fly on the ass with an arrow from a hundred yards, and Nat, who’d probably off you with a fucking paperclip if you looked at her wrong. They got along. Or at least, as much as three damaged goods could. Still, they made it work.

Then there’s Steve. Good old Steve. The punk Bucky actually knew before all this. Except Steve rolled in older, bigger, and better trained, a fucking team leader in the making, dragging Sam along with him. Sam, who followed Steve around like a lost puppy, loyal to a fault. In retrospect, Bucky’s still a bit surprised Sam didn’t take Steve’s side when shit hit the fan. Always figured Sam would follow Steve off a cliff if it came to it. But, hey, loyalty’s a funny thing.

He skips over the Winter Soldier bit. Peter’s heard it before, and Bucky’s not in the mood for a rerun, even in the post-orgasmic bliss that loosens his tongue. Jumps straight to the rest. The moment when word dropped that Tony Stark, the military’s golden gun Santa, got himself kidnapped by Afghanis. Big fucking deal. Rhodes briefed them, all stiff-upper-lip and professional, but Bucky could tell the guy was gutted. That didn’t raise any red flags.

Black-ops retire by getting retired, no way to sugarcoat that. Bucky just didn’t think it was their time yet.

Didn’t pick up on it until it was too late, strutted right into an ambush. More bloody than Budapest, or so Nat and Clint say, but Bucky wouldn’t know—never had the pleasure of that clusterfuck. All he knows is they weren’t supposed to walk out of that shitshow alive, but somehow did.

Well, mostly. Bucky and Tony didn’t exactly stroll out unscathed.

Bucky’s arm got blown clean off, the kind of pain that feels like the devil himself decided to set up camp inside your nerves. Him and Tony both got dragged out, looking more like corpses than survivors. Allegedly. Death warmed over, and all that.

“Funny thing is, Steve blamed the rest of it on me. Like I had a fucking clue what was going on when I came to, doped up, missing a limb, and about three seconds away from a complete mental shutdown. Nothing made sense—Nat aiming her gun at Steve, Steve playing cowboy with Stark in his sights, Sam staring at them, and Clint going for his own gun too. Then Nat got clipped, Steve took one in the side, and I was too busy… well, shit, sorry, bit too heavy, but thinking that wouldn’t it be just fucking perfect to die right now, please and thank you. Passed out again before I could even piece together what the hell had just gone down.”

Bycky pets Peter’s hair, cards his hand through those silky strands. 

“When I finally came to, really came to, Steve was already in the wind, and we were on the run too. Stark got handed off to Rhodes for safekeeping— the only guy left we could trust, or at least, the only guy who wasn’t actively trying to get us killed. After that. Well. Months. Months of nothing but running and hiding. Shoot to kill ain’t no joke. Then, out of the blue, Tony reaches out. Kind of thought he was out for the count. No. Set me up with a new arm, threw us some cash, give us a place to crash. Said someone’s been gunning for him for a while, but couldn’t pin down who.”

Bucky pauses, letting the silence hang there, Peter nuzzling closer, dropping a few kisses here and there, coaxing more out of him like some kind of soft-touch interrogator. Damn if it doesn’t work.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues. “Nat started pulling at the threads. You know, to make sense why they didn’t just off us nice and quiet. Why play pretend and send us after Stark. Was simple. Stupid, even. Wanted to convince Rhodes that the military was all-in on saving Stark. Two birds with one stone. Make it look like something was being done. Retire us in the process. Permanent-like. Classic scumbag move. And the more Nat found, the more clear it became… not what we’ve signed up for.”

He kisses up Peter’s jaw, pulls him closer, flicks the dog tags with a finger, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“So this is what you’ve been doing?” Peter murmurs, taking one of the tags in his hand, rubbing the metal thoughtfully. “Tracking down your buddy, taking out the rot, trying to figure out who wanted Mr. Stark dead so bad? You said Stane when Sam was stitching you up. Wouldn’t it have been obvious from the start? I mean, haven’t you guys ever watched TV? It’s always the business partner or the wife. And he’s got no wife.”

Bucky half-laughs, more of a huff, really. Yeah. Touché, again. Tony and his fucking “tight circle.” Could’ve saved them a hell of a lot of trouble.

Keeping their hands off each other is a bit of a problem. Doesn’t take long for the team to notice, and they’ve got plenty to say about it.

Sam’s the loudest, of course. Always is. Walks in on them once, when Bucky’s got Peter on his knees in the back, getting his soul sucked out of him through his dick, decidedly too lost in it to notice. Sam’s horrified grunt is the only warning they get, and by the time Bucky pulls back, Sam’s already halfway out the door, one hand covering his eyes as if he’s just walked in on his parents having sex.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes!” Sam hollers over his shoulder. “Get a goddamn room!”

Bucky just smirks, doesn’t even bother responding. What’s the point? In comparison to the rest of them, Sam’s still got a stick so far up his ass, it’s a wonder he can walk straight. Peter laughs it off, but gets up, kisses Bucky, drags him upstairs. 

When there, Bucky’s not too proud to admit that Peter turns him into a whimpering fucking mess with his mouth, gets Bucky so desperate he very clearly recalls begging to come. Best head of his life, hands down. Until the next morning, when Peter wakes him up with one, then licks his balls for a better part of an hour and refuses to finish him off until Bucky eats him out even longer. 

Room’s not a problem, honestly. Getting out of the room is. 

Still, the next time Sam catches them kissing, Bucky makes a point of grabbing Peter’s ass, just to watch Sam’s face twist in horror. It’s the little things in life, even though Bucky’s so fucked out for the day, he probably couldn’t get it up again for hours. 

Nat’s more subtle about it, but even she can’t resist a few digs. A raised eyebrow here, a sarcastic comment there. About behaving. Still, it’s hard to care when Peter’s looking at him like that, all wide-eyed and needy. Hard to think about anything else when Peter’s hands are on him, pulling him closer.

Clint’s no better, chiming in with his usual brand of dumbass commentary. Calls them horny teenagers at one point, like he’s one to talk. As if he himself can go five minutes without trying to get into Nat’s pants, though Bucky keeps that to himself. No need to drag her into that. 

And it makes sense, Bucky figures—the way he is with Peter, how they’re constantly finding excuses to touch, to fuck, to just be close. Not that they need them. Excuses. When you’ve spent as much time in the shit as Bucky has, you learn to take what you can get. Life’s too short for playing it safe, and Bucky’s already burned through his nine lives. So, if he wants to spend every waking minute fucking Peter on every flat surface they can find, who’s gonna stop him?

Nobody, that’s who.

Not even Tony Stark, as it turns out.

Bucky’s currently busy—really fucking busy, in fact—when someone bangs on the door. The timing’s fucking terrible, of course. Bucky’s a bit tied up, literally, gagging too, because Peter’s got a damn belt around his neck and is putting it to good use, yanking on it while his sizable dick is stuffing Bucky’s throat. On an unrelated note, holy shit, Bucky didn’t think Peter had it in him. But also, holy shit, does it do it for Bucky. To be fair, though, everything they try does it for Bucky. Everything they’re systematically trying, checking off the list, making it theirs.

So, yeah, Bucky’s a bit preoccupied, choking on more than just words when the banging continues.

“Stark’s downstairs!” someone’s yelling, maybe Sam, maybe Clint—Bucky’s not exactly in a position to care. Peter doesn’t seem inclined to stop either, tight grip on the makeshift leash, keeping Bucky exactly where he wants him. And, fuck, Bucky’s not complaining, swallowing him down. Bit proud he can actually do this, since Peter had tried and, what do you know, failed to do the same. Now, Bucky could complain, a little, but who the fuck would about having a dick too big for deepthroating? Nobody he knows, that’s for damn sure.

He manages to free a hand that’s been pressed against the floor by Peter’s knee, slaps Peter’s thigh in what he hopes is the universal sign for pause the damn rodeo, but all it does is make Peter grin wider and tug a little harder. Bucky’s vision blurs at the edges, in the best way, until the door rattles again with more urgent pounding. This time, Peter finally relents, and Bucky’s grateful for the air, but already missing the pressure.

He’s fucking ruined.

Licks Peter’s thighs for a good few minutes, winks at him for green, knows exactly how he’s going to pay him back as soon as he can. By the time Peter comes on his face and they untangle themselves, Bucky’s throat is sore, and he’s sporting a few new marks that’ll probably take a while to fade. Good marks. They get washed up, dressed in a hurry, which, honestly, feels like a crime when Peter’s standing there all flushed and half-naked, but duty calls or some shit. They stumble down the stairs, half-expecting to be yelled at, only to find Tony already gone.

And the rest of the team looks serious.

“Who died?” Peter jokes.

Bucky lightly punches him in the shoulder. In this line of work, you don’t joke about that.

Nobody answers.

“Right,” Bucky mutters, a sinking feeling in his gut, dread taking over. He drapes an arm over Peter’s shoulders, tucks him at his side, trying to steady himself. “What the hell happened?”

Clint’s staring at the floor, Sam’s got his arms crossed.

“No pardon,” Nat says.

Bucky’s heart plummets. No pardon means Wakanda. And Wakanda means one thing—they’re not just being sidelined; he’s being benched permanently. Off the grid, out of the game. Safe, sure, but neutered. And Peter? Christ, he can’t ask Peter to come with him. Can’t drag him into that kind of exile. Bucky’s suddenly, absolutely fucking terrified in a way he hasn’t been since he woke up missing half his body.

“Peter,” Nat sighs. “Go upstairs. I need to talk to Bucky.”

Bucky frowns. Peter frowns. Sam and Clint look like someone just slapped them with a dead fish. Nat, though, seems about two seconds away from collapsing. Bucky’s first instinct is to tell her to fuck off, but he’s got just enough self-awareness left to realize maybe he’s dragged Peter a little too deep already just by opening his mouth. Peter’s not exactly innocent, but he is when it comes to this.

He catches Peter’s eye, gives him a small nod.

“Go on,” he says, voice gruff. Peter’s got that stubborn look on his face, the one that says he wants to argue, but he listens. He always does. Bucky’s fully aware he’s going to catch hell for this later, but that’s a problem for future Bucky. Right now, he’s got bigger shit to deal with.

As soon as Peter’s out of earshot, Nat’s face goes from exhausted to stone-cold.

“We’ve discussed it between ourselves already, but you… you need to think real fucking hard about your next move,” she says, not wasting a second. Straight to the jugular, that’s Nat.

Bucky moves to the bar, grabs the pint Clint slid over. The asshole’s probably gonna miss this place, especially after he went through the trouble of getting the taps fixed up. Bucky takes a long sip.

“What move? What’s Tony offering as an alternative to goat herding? A free vacation to Siberia?” He takes another sip, staring at the ring of moisture under the pint before glancing back at Nat.

She doesn’t even crack a smile. No surprise there.

“Tony offered us something else. A permanent gig.” Bucky feels his muscles tense because that sounds like the setup to a really bad joke. “We keep doing what we’re doing. Keep an eye on things. Use our skills and his resources to keep the folks in charge honest.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose, then down to his mouth. He takes another gulp of beer. “Let me guess, you’ve got the name picked out and everything already.” He looks at their idiotic sign in the window.

Then looks at Nat again. Her lips twitch, just a bit, but still not a smile. Not even close.

“Think on it. It’s up to you. We… want to do this. But it’s all or none, and we go where you go, you know that. We’d rather… but we get it. We know how you feel about the whole thing. The killing, the job… all of it. But it could be different. You could, I don’t know… run logistics. Do surveillance. Hell, train others if it comes to that. If we need more. And we might. Tony’s got a plan. A solid one. It’s not just about pulling triggers.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? How the fuck do you stop when all you’ve ever known is pulling triggers?” Bucky huffs out a bitter laugh, his hand dropping to the bar as he shakes his head.

“You don’t,” Nat turns to look upstairs to where Peter is, likely pacing about the room, waiting for Bucky to come back and… say what? “You just find a better reason to do it. Stark… Stark’s got something for him too. If he wants.”

Peter’s perched on the windowsill, shoulders hunched, posture stiff. Bracing. Reminds Bucky of that time—Christ, a lifetime ago—when he’d walked in, barely holding it together, not ready to offer a damn thing, but desperate enough to beg Peter to stay the hell out of it. Would’ve gotten on his knees if needed.

Bucky walks over, doesn’t hesitate, and sits down on the nightstand. Peter’s legs dangle over the edge, and Bucky pulls them into his lap, hands finding Peter’s ankle, rubbing absently. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that almost makes Bucky laugh at himself.

“You never asked me why,” Bucky murmurs, finding that small bone on the side, circling it with his fingers.

Peter looks down at him, lips tight. He doesn’t seem confused by the question. Smarter than most people give him credit for—not just the sharp jawline or the pretty eyes. 

“Why you needed a job in the first place,” Peter says, confirming it with a vague motion of his hand, encompassing, well, everything. “Given all this.”

“You can ask me now,” Bucky nods. “Should ask me now.”

Peter turns back to the window like it’s got all the answers written in the fucking sky. He chews on his cheek, a nervous habit Bucky’s come to recognize, then finally speaks, quiet but steady, almost apologetic.

“Don’t need to. Figured it out a while ago. I think. Sorry.”

That’s—

That’s something. Bucky rubs his thumb along Peter’s ankle, humming softly.

“If you need me to say it,” Peter shrugs. “Wasn’t… I wasn’t the only one who needed saving, I guess. Unless I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” Bucky grimaces despite himself. 

Not an easy thing to hear. Not the easiest truth to swallow either, but truth rarely is. Bucky was a bad day—and let’s face it, every day back then was a bad day—away from eating lead. Barrel in his mouth, finger on the trigger, just waiting for that final push. That’s where his head was at. So, he went out, looking for something, anything, to keep his hands busy with something other than blowing his brains out. And somehow, against all odds, found more than he was looking for. A hell of a lot more. Who even gets this fucking lucky? Not him. Not ever.

And now here he is, Peter’s legs draped over his lap, actually thinking about handing Peter the reins, letting him decide what they should do next. Why? Not just because Peter saved him, dragged him back from the edge without even knowing it at the time. And not just because he’s sharp, stubborn, and too smart for his own damn good.

The actual truth? Bucky was always happy enough letting Steve take the lead. Steve making captain was the best thing that could’ve happened. Command was never for Bucky. He hated making decisions that weren’t about where to aim a rifle. Just because you’re supposedly decent at something doesn’t mean you should be the one doing it. Peter’s seen him fumble through enough by now to realize Bucky doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing half the time.

So why not offer the choice to him? The others were all too eager to push that shit on Bucky. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Peter shoves at him with his foot. “I am not deciding shit for you.”

The balls on this one. Seriously, the fucking balls. After everything Bucky’s done for him—except, wait, what the fuck has Bucky actually done for Peter? Bought him fries that one time. Maybe. But if they’re keeping score, Peter’s got him beat just by existing in Bucky’s orbit.

Fine. Fine. Bucky grabs Peter’s ankle, yanks him off the windowsill and plants him properly on his lap. Peter lands with an "Uff," straddling him, and now they’re face to face, Peter’s knees digging into the nightstand that’s probably about to tap out of existence.

“Fine,” Bucky huffs out, because he’s not above being a stubborn asshole.

“Fine,” Peter echoes, because apparently, being a stubborn asshole is contagious.

“Okay, so you’re onboard with me runnin’ a secret fuckin’ spy organization, our entire goal being to stop global domination by absolute dickheads, while you intern with Tony Stark?”

Peter doesn’t even blink. Just shrugs, no big deal, then leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet, like that’s supposed to make everything better. It does. 

“And no,” Bucky adds, narrowing his eyes, “don’t even think about fuckin’ him. I’ll end you both.”

“You can watch,” Peter smirks, going for another kiss, only to hiss when Bucky bites down on his lip, none too gentle. “Kidding, kidding. Jesus, your sense of humor sucks. Kiss it better.”

A real pain in the ass, this guy. Bucky knew he was trouble the second he laid eyes on him. 

He grins, feeling way too fucking satisfied for someone who’s basically arguing in circles.

“Fine. Now, c’mere.”