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always a woman, to me (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | inspiration | some canonically inaccurate things pertaining to bucky's family, go with it please!! | you can read part two here!

content warnings: complex family dynamics; very brief mentions of SA/harassment; brief mentions/allusions to PTSD and trauma; sexual content (p in v; fem and m receiving)

word count: 26k.

blurb: Bucky Barnes has a secret. He has massages nearly every week. It's to help him with his tension and anxiety; to help him sleep. And maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the pretty masseuse.

Bucky Barnes had a secret.

It had started as an off-handed joke from Sam. It was back in the summer, when Bucky had gone to visit him and his family. They’d been sitting out back, basking in the sunshine, sharing kebabs and grilled burgers and ice tea in the July heat. Sam had walked past him and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it in a brotherly fashion.

“God damn, you’re tense,” he’d chuckled. Bucky glanced up at him, laughing as he walked back to the house, likely to fetch another beer, Sam joked, “you should get a massage or something. Loosen you up.”

Bucky wasn’t sure why it had sat in his mind for so long. It was like a bad smell in his house: no matter what he did to try and deter, it wouldn’t leave. He knew he was tense. Sleeping on a hardwood floor with nothing but a woolen blanket will do that to you; leave you with knots in your shoulders and an aching back. He walked as if he were carrying rocks on his head, weighing down on his neck, dragging his arms towards the floor. His back was stiff, guard always up. Bucky flinched at the slightest intrusion. He wasn’t quick to physical touch, always the one to initiate something as minor as a handshake or hug with Sam.

The pain had once felt like repent. Punishment, in a way. After all the horrors he’d caused, what right did he have to be comfortable? To be relaxed. But it was also familiar. He’d been tense for so long it was hard to remember a time when he had felt every muscle in his body take a breath. Locked up inside of a shell, screaming to get out, made it so that there was always a part of him that would never fully calm. It was an understatement to say his accommodation during his time as the Winter Soldier was far from five stars. Concrete slabs for a bed; an ice chamber for a tomb; freezing water to shower under; beatings as punishment for a sloppy job, or when one of the guards was feeling bored. After, when he was running from Hydra, hiding from the law, it was not much better. The mattress he’d thrifted was lumpy. Springs stuck out at odd angles, digging into his spine and biting into his arms and legs. Sometimes the floor was favoured. Strangely, it provided him with more ease of rest. But he didn’t rest. He thrashed in deep and disturbed waters, fighting to break the surface of sleep. Awake wasn’t much better. He was on edge, on watch, ready to run or to fight - whichever came first. Usually both. There was always a fight, it seemed. A fight that he never wanted in the first place.

Bucky had hoped that after Karli, and Sam, and John Walker, the seeming semblance of closure to his past life would help that tension ease. He had thought it would roll off him like pebbles from a sloping cliff - dropping down into the depths of the ocean. But just like all the dark sides of his past and the scars that littered his body, it seemed it would be forever. He had tried to make peace with that too. But Sam’s offhand comment had planted the seed.

That was how he wound up here, standing in the reception of ‘Serenity Springs’. It was just outside of the city; a wooden lodge with black tiled roofs and enough shrubs to challenge the Amazon rainforest. It was attached to a golf club. He’d seen a gaggle of middle-aged men dressed in khakis and polo shirts, laughing haughty at a joke one had made whilst leaning against golf carts. Bucky had almost turned the car around at the sight: that wasn’t his crowd. But something had driven him to stay. Perhaps it was the eighty dollars he’d already dropped on the booking.

Glancing around the quiet reception, he surveyed the scene like a reflex. Instead of scanning for threats, Bucky tried to familiarise himself with the foreign environment. Spas weren’t much of a thing in his time, with massages just as unpopular. If he were to sit his former self down and tell him that he would one day wind up in a spa, Bucky couldn’t help but feel it might be one of the harder things to wrap his head around. Somehow torture seemed more on the cards than dressing in a robe and lying down on some cushioned table with oils slicked up and down his back.

The place seemed non-threatening. Plinky, nondescript music played in the background. A couple of older ladies sat in armchairs facing one another, nursing cups of coffee and talking in hushed tones with pleasant smiles. Their robes were beige and waffled in texture, hanging slightly large on their frail frames. To their right was an enormous fish tank. It bubbled in what Bucky imagined was supposed to be a soothing manner (though it truthfully just made him want to pee); brightly coloured coral was intermixed with reeds and purple and blue stones. Tropical fish swam around in the expanse. Behind him, an extensive collection of products were advertised on glass shelves. He eyed one of the price tags, eyes widening slightly at the seventy dollars attached to what looked to be a rather regular bottle of lotion. As he was about to lose nerve, someone sauntered over to the reception desk.

“Good morning, sir,” she smiled kindly.

“Morning,” Bucky replied, clearing his throat.

“How can I help you today?” Her voice was overly soft like it had been left out in the sun for too long.

Bucky took a breath, glancing at the array of items displayed along the desk’s surface as he said, “I, uh, got a booking. A massage and stuff like that.”

“Wonderful, let me just check on the system. What’s your name?”

Bucky’s eyes glanced at her, quickly scanning her face. She was waiting patiently, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “James. James Barnes.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured, typing away. A pause, waiting for the screen to load, and then, “ah, yes. The Swedish massage, is it? Neck, shoulders and arms, hm?”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” Bucky nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He felt like he took up too much space. Stood too tall; felt too broad. He took another quick glance around him and wanted to sigh with relief at the sight of another man tucked away in an armchair, also dressed in a robe.

“Wonderful. So your treatment isn’t until three-forty. You do have access to all the spa amenities whilst you wait, which are just through the glass doors to your left,” the receptionist explained, gesturing with a soft sweep of her hand to the doorway. Bucky gave a nod. “There is a complimentary coffee included in your treatment. We have all the classics: Americano, latte, cappuccino…”

“A latte would be great. Thanks.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring that over to you, if you’d want to take a seat. I’ll also give you this to fill out, just to give to our therapists.” With that, a clipboard was placed before him. Bucky took it and perused the text. He swallowed and nodded again. “Wonderful. I’ll be right there with your coffee.”

Bucky wondered if it was a requirement for every sentence in this place to start with an affirmation.

The armchair nearest the other man seemed to be calling to him. Some primal urge to be near his own, perhaps. Or maybe he didn’t want to seem as though he was eavesdropping into the juicy drama that Barbara was sharing with Lucy (apparently her son had cheated on his wife for the third time and got someone pregnant; quite the scandal; curse superhuman hearing). He tapped the pen provided against the frame of the board as he read. Bla, bla, bla, welcome to Serenity Springs, we hope you have a relaxing and rejuvenating time with us, bla, bla… First came the health conditions. His pen lingered at the check box beside ‘elderly’. There were ages specified in the brackets beside it but Bucky exceeded them, and so he decided not to bother. It wasn’t as though people were querying him on his pension every other day. The box beside ‘amputee’ was met with a tick mark, along with ‘mental illness’ and ‘poor sleep’. Shifting in his seat with a sigh, his eyes caught the receptionist making her way over with a coffee mug.

“Here you go sir. Enjoy,” she remarked as she placed it on the coffee table beside him. “Here’s the key to your locker. Everything you need - robe, towel and sliders - are inside it. If you return to this area five minutes before your treatment, your therapist will come collect you. We hope you have a wonderful time with us, and please ask if you need anything.”

Bucky nodded and murmured a thanks, offering a tight smile. He felt uneasy in this place. Everyone was acting like they’d taken a sedative or smoked a joint. Must be something in the water. At the thought, he glanced at his coffee. Would that be so bad? Wasn’t that why he was here, after all? To relax. To loosen the hell up? He took a long sip and swallowed. Back to the clipboard.

Is there anything your therapist should be aware of for your treatment?

It was hard to hold back his snort. The box didn’t provide enough space for all that. Instead, he simply wrote two words: ‘war vet’. There were some other boring terms and conditions to sign and date, like if he somehow became so relaxed that he might drop dead on the table, and then he was done. He watched the fish as he finished his coffee. There was a aquamarine one which kept bumping the glass. Darwinism. Then, with the clipboard handed over to the receptionist, who received it as if she’d won some grand award (“wonderful, thank you so much”), Bucky was venturing into the changing rooms.

They were empty save for one gentleman. Elderly, wrinkled, still somewhat spritely in his way of moving as he fed things into his locker. Bucky used the key provided to open his designated locker. As promised, he was met with a robe and towel, and a pair of toweled sliders. He unpacked the backpack which had been slung over his shoulder, changing into his swim shorts. He hesitated at the hem of his shirt. The elderly man had long retired to the pool area. The changing room was empty. Inhaling deeply, Bucky tugged his shirt off quick and fast as if ripping off a band-aid. He tucked it into his backpack before pulling his robe on, quick to conceal his metal arm that glinted in the daylight seeping through the small windows above the lockers. Everything locked away, sliders now on, Bucky swallowed his pride and stepped out of the changing rooms and into the pool area as if he were walking onto an active battle field.

There were a myriad of people lounging on sunbeds, eyes slipped shut or head buried in a book. Some were gathered in the hot tub; a couple sat side by side, chatting away, smiling brightly. A twenty-something-year-old was swimming laps like he was training for the Olympics in the pool. The whoosh of the waves that came with every stroke blended into the vague bubbling and lapping of the water. Through an archway were the so-called ‘amenities’ which he had been forewarned of. A sauna and a steam room, and an ice bucket which Bucky was planning to avoid like the plague. His feet seemed to guide him there, leading him to the hooks lining the wall outside the steam room. Swallowing the nerves, Bucky took a quick glance around him before shrugging off his robe. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious to reveal his arm. He didn’t tend to show it off in public, favouring gloves simply to save the stares and questions, and mostly the recognition. But this was different. It felt exposing. It wasn’t just the hand or forearm that would be on show. It would be the whole thing.

Face hard like steel, Bucky pulled open the door to the steam room and stepped inside. It tugged closed behind him. With a quick survey, there was nobody else inside. The tension that he unconsciously carried eased slightly with the realisation. Only slightly. Sighing, he took a seat in the far corner, tucked almost out of sight, disappearing behind a cloud of aromatic fog. The breath he took in was deep, filling his lungs as if it were the first time he had breathed in years, and he instantly felt lighter. His eyes slipped shut and his head rocked back. Bucky could see the appeal.

Time stretched on like that. Droplets gathered on his face, his arms, his chest, his legs. They ran down the bridge of his nose and dripped off his chin and fingertips. His metal arm soaked up the heat but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His back began to soften into the tiled bench. He licked his lips and faintly tasted salt from his sweat intermingled with the steam. When the door clicked open, however, whatever semblance of relaxation Bucky had found vanished.

“I think he’ll have to leave her, Lucy.”

It was Barbara and Lucy from the reception. They waddled in, their floral swimsuits fitting for their characters. The door clicked shut behind them and they glanced at Bucky, smiling brightly at him. He gave a closed lip smile back, acknowledging them, questioning whether to dart out. Barbara settled in the far corner, Lucy beside her, and they both sighed. Bucky eyed the door.

“I think he’s been needing to leave her since the first one, Barbs. That little nineteen-year-old he scurried off with? It’s shameless.”

Bucky glanced down at the floor. He couldn’t believe that he was considering staying to listen in to some more of the conversation. God damn it.

“Sometimes wish he just got that damn vasectomy. Would have saved him a lot of trouble.”

In his peripheral vision, Bucky saw Lucy elbow Barbara. She gave a pointed look over to Bucky. Shame prickled his spine, dread colouring him pinker than the heat. They’d recognised him. Oh God - what were they going to say? He should leave. He should just get up and–

“-oh, I’m sorry dear. Should watch my language, hm?”

Bucky looked at her blankly for a moment before finding his voice. He smiled politely. “No, no, you’re good. Don’t worry. I wasn’t even listening, really.”

“Impossible. Barbara, here, doesn’t know the meaning of talking quietly,” Lucy replied. Barbara scoffed and shook her head, laughing. Bucky felt his smile ease into something more natural. Then, Lucy’s eyes widened. With a gape, she exclaimed, “My God, you’re in good shape.”

“Lucy!”

“Well, he is! They weren’t built like that back in my days, I’ll tell you that for free,” Lucy shamelessly commented.

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, flustered and flattered all at once. “Oh, uh thanks, 'suppose.”

“What on earth do you lift? Cars?”

“Oh, Lucy, for Christ’s sake,” Barbara tutted, shaking her head. Then, at Bucky, she added, “sorry about her.”

“You’re good, you’re good. A compliment’s a compliment, so…” Bucky replied.

“Mm, I think you might be a little young for this one,” Barbara joked. Bucky couldn’t help his smile as he thought, I think you’d be surprised to find that I’m definitely not. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Uh, no. First time, actually.”

“Oh, well you’re in for a treat!”

“We love it here. Come nearly every week,” Lucy chimed in. She had finally stopped ogling Bucky’s physique. Thumbing to her left, she added, “this one’s granddaughter works here. We get a discount.”

“Discount, huh? That’s a pretty sweet deal,” Bucky replied.

“She’s a darl, she really is. A great masseuse too. Oh! Maybe you’ll have her! Are you having a treatment today?” Bucky nodded. Barbara clapped her hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, well here’s to hoping!”

Bucky smiled once more and nodded. “Here’s to hoping,” he echoed, finding the conversation coming to a natural close. The door cracked open and someone else joined. The elderly man from the changing rooms. He took perch and the room fell quiet once more. Bucky rocked his head back and closed his eyes. The strange conversation with Barbara and Lucy had seemed to wipe away any fears of how people might react to him being there. He contemplated his narcissism as he basked in the steam once more. Breathed in and out. If it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he likely wouldn’t have heard Barbara’s whisper to Lucy:

“He’d be nice for my darl, don’t you think?”

“Oh certainly. If I was ten years younger…”

“Try thirty,” Barbara snorted. Bucky bit back his smile. Maybe this spa thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

The rest of the waiting time passed without a hitch. People were weirdly welcoming. They kept to themselves. Shared polite smiles, the occasional odd word passed, a comment here or there about the temperature of the water in the hot tub or the essential oil used in the sauna. Any glances to his arm were fleeting like a comet; not a single comment made. Barbara and Lucy gave enthusiastic waves from across the room when Bucky accidentally caught their eye. He gave a small wave back; they were oddly endearing. In a funny way, he imagined that’s what he and Steve might have been like if everything had gone to plan: returning from the war, healthy and alive, settling to live long lives.

Just as requested, at three-thirty-five, Bucky returned to the waiting room. He felt a little silly dressed in his swim shorts and robe, large feet tucked into a pair of sliders which were a size too small. He sat in an armchair and stared at the fishtank, losing himself in thoughts of what Barbara’s granddaughter might look like. He hadn’t asked for a name. Had no clue to go from, not unless she happened to be the spitting image of her grandmother.

“James, is it?”

His head snapped to his left. You’d snuck up on him, somehow. You were smiling, warm and welcoming like a crackling fire in a log cabin. Bucky nodded.

“Are you ready for your treatment?”

He nodded again.

“Excellent. If you want to follow me, it’s just up these stairs.”

With that, Bucky pushed to his feet. He stood a good foot taller than you. Your hair was pulled back neatly, fly aways caught under bobby pins. The attire seemed typical for your job: a black shirt with black pants, plain flats which padded softly on the carpeted stairs that Bucky followed you up. The plinky music was back, slightly louder upstairs, and there was an oil diffuser which stunk the place up of lavender. You smiled politely over your shoulder.

“Is this your first time at Serenity Spa?”

Bucky nodded.

“How are you finding it?”

“S’alright,” Bucky replied. You nodded, seemingly not discouraged by his quiet demeanour, and led him to a treatment room.

“If you just want to take a seat for me,” you gestured to a leather single seater. Bucky nodded and did as asked. His hands clasped together; the metal twinkled under the low lighting of the room. You clicked the door shut, trapping the two of you inside of a mostly dark treatment room. There were electric candles scattered across the various surfaces. An orange light was dimly glowing above a sink. Coin sized spotlights were pressed into the ceiling to imitate stars. It smelt like essential oils. The plinky music remained, but now it was more like white noise, low tones that made Bucky feel like he was at the bottom of the ocean. The thing which caught his eye was an ornament. It was a Newton’s cradle: five metallic balls which were constantly in motion. One clicked against the other and it sent it all into action.

“Right, so if we— Everything okay?”

Bucky glanced back at you. “Yeah.”

You turned to see where he’d been looking. “A fan of Newton’s cradle?”

“It’s annoying,” Bucky commented without thinking. You laugh, dissipating any worry Bucky had of being rude.

“Suppose it is, yeah,” you quietly comment as you make your way over to it. A pedicured finger reaches out to catch one of the balls. You gently ease it back into place beside the others and it finally sits still. Looking at him, you ask, “better?”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, so where was I?” you wonder aloud, walking back over to him. You lean against the massage table, standing opposite him. “Right! So, welcome to your treatment. You said this was your first time with us at Serenity. Is it your first time having a massage?”

Bucky nods. The tension was coming back, creeping in like a morning fog. You weren’t intimidating or unwelcoming. In fact, Bucky had never known someone to have such a natural aura of calm around them. It was as if you exuded it. The smile that remained on your face wasn’t fake or performative. It was as if you’d been born with a quirk to your lips, tugging them upwards, beaming at seemingly nothing. For some reason, it didn’t annoy him. But the unfamiliarity of the process - the notion that he’d have to relinquish control to a stranger - that did little to set him at ease. The spa had been pleasant enough because Bucky could decide where to go and when to leave. He knew what a steam room and a sauna and a hot tub entailed. But this? This was unchartered waters.

“Okay,” you say, nodding, “well, today you’ll be receiving a Swedish massage for your neck, shoulders and arms. All that means is the type of massage therapy I’ll be using. Nothing out of the ordinary - your classic oils and lotions. Does that all sound okay?”

Bucky swallowed. He forced himself to nod.

“What’s your skin type?”

Bucky’s brows tugged together with a frown. He glanced down at himself, mostly concealed in the waffly robe. “Uh…white?”

You give a small laugh, polite, not demeaning. “Oh, uh, no, I meant what sort of skin type do you have? Oily, dry, sensitive…?”

Bucky shrugged. “Normal, I guess.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding once more. “Normal’s good. Makes things easy for me,” you smile. Bucky tries his best to smile back. The tension is consuming him. He feels like his shoulders are up to his ears; his back nothing but a metal rod. “Are you comfortable with lotions and oils?”

“Sure.”

“And is there any place that you would prefer not to be touched?”

Bucky eyes flit away from yours and down at the floor. He studies your shoes. They’re leather. The polish shines in the low lighting. “Uh…Well, I have a prosthetic, so…not quite sure how that works…”

“Right, okay,” you say. “I did notice you put ‘war vet’ on the form? Is that something you’d want to discuss?”

Bucky’s eyes quickly dart back to yours. His guard goes up. “Discuss how?”

You seem to notice your misstep, eyes widening momentarily, that permanent smile faltering. “Oh! No, nothing…intrusive. Just…does that make a change to how you might want to receive your massage?”

What kind of dumbass question is that? Bucky thinks to himself. He shrugs. “Well, I don’t really know what this involves so–”

“--Well, I’m just thinking to another war vet I had in here–”

“--there’s been some before?” Bucky can’t help but ask. You seem stunned by his question for a second.

“Yeah,” you then say, smiling again, nodding. “A few, actually. Massage and aroma therapy can have incredibly beneficial effects on improving the mind and body, especially for those who have gone through rough times. Traumatic times, even."

Bucky studies you a moment as if searching for some insincerity. You don’t shy away from it. You wait, smile, hands clasped pretty in front of you. “What’ve you done for them, in the past?”

You visibly relax at his question. “Well, one preferred to know what I was going to do. I’d give him heads-ups for where I was going to touch him, and he’d tell me no if it was too much. It can be overstimulating sometimes, y’know?”

That didn’t sound all bad. Bucky cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat. It felt like a vice, holding him in. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good with me.”

“Perfect. Okay, so, when you’re ready, if you could take off your robe - you can just leave it on the chair - and then get up onto the table, underneath the blanket. If you lie on your stomach with your head through the hole, there. Is that alright?”

Bucky felt his cheeks burn warm as he reluctantly asked, “do I, uh…am I…dressed, or?”

You don’t seem surprised by the question. “It’s down to personal preference. Some people like to be fully nude beneath the blanket but some prefer to keep their swim shorts on. The blanket’s there anyway so I won’t be seeing anything.”

His stiff nod is your reply. You push off the table and head to the door. “Perfect. I’ll give you a few minutes, and I’ll knock before coming back in.”

“Got it,” Bucky mumbled. With that, you’re stepping out of the room. He lets out a deep breath the moment he’s alone. It feels stupid. The twinkling tunes do little to make him feel less of a pratt as he rises to his feet and shrugs off his robe. The table is sturdy as he climbs atop of it. It’s ungainly as he wriggles under the blanket, once more doing little to alleviate how out of place he feels. Least it smells nice. And that annoying tick-tick-tick of Newton's cradle has stopped. Then, Bucky just lies. His forehead presses into the cushioned lining of the head-hole. His hands lay by his sides, metal fingers whirring quietly as they twitch. Impatient. On edge. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever been more uncomfortable in his life, and he’d spent half of it locked in a chamber of ice.

As promised, there’s a knock on the door. At Bucky’s silence, you click it open a crack. “All good?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. You step in and close the door. It feels like every part of him is on edge, waiting to be triggered like a loaded gun. His eyes listen carefully to every move you make. Every footstep around the room. He tracks it in his mind as if retracing a map of the four walled room.

“Okay, I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say. You walk over to the sink. Bucky hears the water running. On, then off. “I’m going to turn this light off,” you tell him, and Bucky watches the light slinking across the floor become slightly dimmer. You approach the table. Your footsteps are light - you’d make a good spy, he thinks to himself. The tone of your voice is gentle, soothing like honey, squishy like wet sand. “I’m just going to pull the blanket down to your lower waist.”

The blanket is eased off his frame and folded carefully downwards. It isn’t cold in the room but goosebumps still pebble his skin. His fingers twitch again. He stares holes into the ground. His arm has never felt so obvious before. Bucky listens for the hitch in your breath, some sign of surprise or recognition, or maybe even disgust. But there’s nothing. You’re unshaken, it seems. Until:

“I can see you’re wearing a chain. Would it be okay if you remove it?”

Bucky remembers the dog tags which are currently pressing into his stomach. They were a part of him now, always on his person, that he forgot about them entirely. “Oh, uh, sure.”

“Thank you. It’s just to make it easier to get to your neck,” you tell him. Bucky pushes up slightly on one arm, using the other to pull the tags up and over his head. In his peripheral, he sees your outstretched hand, palm open. He hesitates. “There’s a bowl right near the sink. They’ll be safe there.”

Handing them over feels wrong. It’s like he’s giving a piece of him away. Without them, he feels naked. Exposed. As he lays back down on his front, he catches the clink of his dog tags being placed in the tray. You cross the room and lather your hands in some sort of oil. Bucky’s heart begins to quicken. There’s an overwhelming urge to just get up and grab his stuff and get out. But he doesn’t. Fights to keep his body still, his mind present. You return to the side of the table.

“Take a deep breath in for me through the nose, James,” you request in that same, supple voice. Bucky closes his eyes and does as you ask. “Good…Now let it out through the mouth.”

His body softens slightly on the warm table.

“I’m going to apply some oil to your shoulders and back, now. I might touch your neck, too.”

With that, your hands meet his skin. They’re warm, slick with oil, soft like you wrap them in cotton wool every night. There’s a slight pressure that presses through your fingertips as you rub his shoulders. You follow the planes of his muscles, easing down his back, tracing the flesh with that pressure that’s just on the edge of being too much. Bucky lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

“Good,” you murmur, as if somehow noticing. With that, your hands are returning to his shoulders. Your palms press into the flesh, feeling out the muscle, seeking out the areas of tension. It seems you’re exploring, almost. Familiarising yourself with his body and his skeleton. It isn’t creepy or intrusive. It’s almost scientific. Methodical in the way an architect might survey the land before designing a building, or a painter contemplates their canvas before applying paint. When you finally make contact with his metal arm, it’s different. Of course it is: Bucky wasn’t expecting you to try and massage pure metal, as if you might soften it up. But you don’t shy away from it. Instead, you run your hands tenderly over the limb, fingers imitating the way they might press into the rest of his flesh and blood, palms expanding over the plates. The oil dampens the vibranium as if you’re blind to the inhuman appendage. Something drops out of his shoulders. It feels like one of the many rocks he carries has been taken away.

“How’s the pressure?” you ask as you return to his back.

“S’good,” Bucky murmurs.

The sensation creeps up the back of his neck. The tips of your fingers tease at the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. It’s dizzying, the way the massage of your hands can make him feel lighter. Bucky internally kicks himself for not trying this sooner.

It isn’t a miracle cure. There’s a knot in his left shoulder where the scarring is that you work at, hands now lathered in lotion, which barely gives way. But with every precise push and prod at his body, he feels like a needle has been removed from a pin cushion. He feels like he’s floating on water’s surface. His body feels warm, liquid, and eased. Bucky lets out a sigh as you work at his back. Sinks deeper into the table like he’s melting. Just as promised, every time you do something different, you tell him. It helps him settle. Something in his mind is told to go off duty: we got it, we don’t need you right now. We’re safe.

The hour is up too fast. The blanket is faithfully returned over his back, the hem lining his shoulders. You tell him that you’re going to wash your hands before doing so. Then you’re standing near his side. Bucky doesn’t want to open his eyes yet. He doesn’t want to step away from this pocket of peace he’s found, as if he’s stumbled blindly into the garden of Eden.

“I’ll let you relax for a moment, and then if you want to return into your robe and meet me out in the seated lounge area when you’re ready: I’ll be outside.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. You open and close the door. The music isn’t as annoying as it was before. Bucky indulges in the nondescript instrumentation, lyricless but not without meaning. Reluctantly, he pushes up onto his forearms. The blanket slips down. He sighs and swings his legs off the side of the table. Climbing down, returning into his robe, he heads to the sink to retrieve his dog tags. Bucky takes a moment to check his reflection. Maybe it’s the essential oils seeping into his head, but he swears that he looks younger. He feels it.

You’re sitting, one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window in the seated lounge. Bucky returns your smile when you turn to look at him.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask.

“Great, actually,” Bucky replies. He can’t help the slight amusement in his voice; he’s still bewildered that it did something.

You’re not smug when you tell him, “I told you it does wonders.”

“Might have me drinking the Kool aid on that one,” Bucky smiles. He takes a seat to the left of you.

“Can I get you a drink at all? Water?”

“I’m alright. Thank you, though.”

“My pleasure,” you say, rising to your feet. “Stay here as long as you like. There’s no rush to leave.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, smiling. As you’re about to leave, something occurs to him to ask. “Hey, uh–”

You pause and look at him expectantly.

“What’s your name again, sorry? Don’t think I caught it earlier.”

It rolls off your tongue easily and rattles in Bucky’s head. He echos it quietly and you seem to stare at him a moment. Bucky feels himself smile at you - a real smile. You smile back, somehow different from before, before leaving him alone in the lounge. Bucky sighs and relaxes in the chair. He can’t seem to shake the shadow of a smile on his face because for the first time since he was a dumb kid running amuck in Brooklyn, he feels like himself. He feels connected, his mind no longer lost in his skull, his body no longer a stranger to his soul. He feels present, lighter, rejuvenated. It’s like a drug. Now that he’s had a hit, he simply needs more. Cannabis doesn’t seem to touch him but this just might take its place.

That was how it came to be that Bucky was a regular at the Serenity Spa.

He went once a month, then twice, and now it was abnormal if he wasn’t there almost three times. There were membership perks which exceeded just the free welcome coffee. Turns out, there was a cafe too. They served brunch and sandwiches and Bucky got them for free. Drinks, too. Beers and whiskeys and wines. The other members became familiar faces. Barbara and Lucy were unlikely friends with Bucky. They pulled him into their gossip, quizzed him on a “man’s opinion” regarding Barbara’s lost-cause for a son. Some of the things he’d been told made Bucky feel like he wasn’t half bad in comparison (I mean, come on Darren, knocking up your wife’s sister is a step too far…). Lucy grilled Bucky relentlessly about his dating life. He knew why: he’d overheard them talking about how great he’d been for Barbara’s granddaughter - her ‘darl’ as she was known - more times than he could count. They’d questioned about his arm politely once in the hot tub. Bucky gave the shorter story - that he lost it in action and was lucky enough to get such an advanced replacement - and they seemed content. Apologetic and sympathetic in the way that most people are when they hear a snippet of Bucky’s life story, but not intrusive. Nothing seemed to jog their memory of former Captain America’s best friend. Perhaps it helped that he went by James at the spa, sporting it like some kind of alter ego. But he liked the separation. Nobody asked him about work, or about congress, or about how he was ‘holding up’. No, at the spa he was just James: a run of the mill guy who people likely presumed worked in finance or some other boring business career, with a barren love life and too much time spent in the gym.

But the real draw that kept him going - the nicotine to his cigarettes - was you.

Ever since his first time at the spa, you’d been his masseuse. He requested it so frequently that it wasn’t even a question anymore. The two of you had built a rapport of sorts. The conversations had expanded from outside of the start and end of the sessions. Bucky would ask you things whilst you massaged him. Silly, trivial things that he’d been wondering about on the drive back to the city, like what music you listened to, or what your favourite type of food was, or a show you’d been watching lately. He asked about how you got into massage-therapy and how long you’d lived in New York. Over three months, Bucky liked to think that the two of you were something akin to friends. Bucky didn’t request you as his therapist because you were pretty: he did it because he enjoyed your company and your talents.

And, yes, okay, maybe because you were pretty too.

It was your voice. He’s sure that’s what did it. You’d wormed your way into his ear drums and burrowed into the depths of his mind. He’d hear your crooning timbre in his sleep, which was increasingly less disturbed than before. He’d ask questions not just because he was interested but as an excuse to hear you speak. He’d bathe in the words, in the way vowels would fall off your tongue like dew drops on flower petals. How consonants were these melodic intricacies when they came out of your pretty mouth.

Then it was your smile. It put all others to shame. Made Bucky wish that nobody else bothered with it, because they could never make it look quite as perfect and beguiling as you did. He’d started making jokes just to see it blossom into a grin.

Then it was your lips. The way they’d uplift with your cheeriness, how they’d move when you’d speak, the way your tongue would dip over them sometimes, dampening them with your saliva like makeshift gloss, a gloss which Bucky wondered the taste of, the feel of…

But it was mostly the massages. That was the main draw.

The massages, and the free drinks and food.

The changes that the regular spa visits had brought in Bucky hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam was perceptive of the tiniest things. He could tell if a single chocolate chip cookie had been stolen from a pack of fifty. So it shouldn’t have come as a shock when he told Bucky, one random Tuesday:

“You’re different.”

Bucky was visiting him at his “headquarters” (a rented out unit filled with training equipment and computers, tracking leads on the wall with pictures and string). He’d been in the area whilst campaigning for this congressman role he’d been chipping away at and thought he ought to stop by.

“Seem happy.”

“I’m gonna try not to be offended at that,” Bucky replied. At Sam’s quirked brow, he added, “you’re implying I’m usually not happy.”

“Just stating facts, robocop,” Sam smirked. He smacked him on the arm as he walked past, over to the coffee machine. “What’s your secret? Hard drugs?”

“Just trying some things out,” Bucky replied, shrugging. He surveyed the room, leisurely taking a lap. Photographs were framed and lined the shelves. One of him and Sam caught his eye. It was taken at Coney Island - the first time Bucky had been back since before the war.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Just things,” Bucky murmured. He wondered if you’d ever been to Coney Island.

“Things, huh?”

“Yeah.” Did you like rides? Or were you more of a games and stalls kind of girl?

“Sexy things?”

That caught his attention. Bucky frowned, glancing over to his friend. He was wearing a shit-eating grin. The coffee machine whirred loudly as it brewed. “Sexy things?” he echoed, voice incredulous.

“You heard me,” Sam doubled down, wiggling his eyebrows. “You getting some? That mummified body of yours still got it?”

“You’re a child,” Bucky dryly replied.

“So, no sex?”

Rolling his eyes, he wandered over to the coffee machine. He took the mug offered out to him. “Why’s that the first place your mind goes to?”

“Look, man, you’re a-hundred-and-ten: you ain’t dead,” Sam tells him.

Chuckling shortly, Bucky shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee.

“A’right, so if it ain’t a girl, what is it?”

Bucky weighed up in his mind whether or not to divulge his secret. He’d managed to keep it under wraps for three months now. Sharing it felt like showing someone a page of your old journals: slightly embarrassing but not completely mortifying. He contemplated whether he was ready to let someone else in on his oasis.

“If I tell you, you’re not allowed to laugh,” Bucky sighed.

“I never laugh,” Sam shrugged. Bucky rolled his eyes mirthfully, shaking his head.

“A'right. I’ve been getting massages.”

Sam’s quiet a moment. Bucky can see the cogs in his mind processing his words. It seems that ‘Bucky’ and ‘massages’ don’t quite mesh well together in his brain. “Massages? Like at a spa?”

“Yep,” Bucky affirms, taking another sip of his drink.

“Well, that’s…something. How long you been going?”

“A few months.”

“I mean, I’d make fun but it’s worked wonders. Not gonna take a dig at something that’s made tinman get his groove back.”

“I don’t approve of any of these nicknames, by the way.”

“Where is this spa?” Sam asks, ignoring Bucky’s comment.

“New York.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Gimme more than that, man. What’s it called?”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Cause I wanna get a piece of this!” Sam loudly replies, as if it were obvious. “You got any idea how stressful it is being Captain America? I need’a lie back in a sauna and get my back all oiled up.”

In a strange flash of images, Bucky pictures you giving Sam a massage in the same way you do him. Something green flares in his stomach.

“You’re not going to my spa.”

“The hell I’m not. I’m a Captain now. I outrank you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “I’m your senior. I outrank you.”

“You’re a senior to everything except trees and building so that don’t count. It’s moot.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Sam argues. He tosses up a hand before Bucky can bicker his side. “Look, I’ll find out one way or another, so you might as well tell me. Maybe we can have a day there together. Our first bromance trip.”

Nothing has ever sounded more unappealing to Bucky.

And yet he somehow finds himself standing side by side with Sam Wilson in the Serenity Spa reception.

“Morning, Lily,” Bucky smiles at the receptionist: Mrs Wonderul, he’d labelled her in his head.

“Morning, James,” she returns, chipper as always. Her eyes move to Sam.

“This is my friend, Sam. I think I got one of those extra guest passes?” Bucky checks.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve been stacking them up, in fact,” Lily tells him. Her manicured fingers click-clack on the keyboard as she types. “Are the two of you wanting treatments this afternoon?”

“Treatments, huh?” Sam asks, humour pitching his voice. “What’s that entail exactly?”

“Massages, facials, that sort of thing,” Lily politely explains. Sam bobs his head and glances to Bucky, shrugging.

“I’m game if you are.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees.

“Wonderful,” she chirps, typing away. “I have two slots at two-thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

“James, I’ll put you with your usual therapist. Sam, do you have a preference?”

“Whose his usual therapist?” Sam wonders, pointing to the stoic man beside him. Bucky grinds his teeth. Before Lily can reply, the door tucked in the corner, behind the reception desk, opens. You come walking through, focus on the clipboard in front of you. Your brows are furrowed together.

“Lily, do you know where Matthew put the order of lavender oil? I’ve looked everywhere in the back,” you grumble.

Lily glances over her shoulder at you and shrugs. “Who knows. He always put things in the weirdest places.”

“Almost like there’s a system in place to try and stop that from happening,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes. You look up at her but your eyes catch Bucky and Sam. The smile that jumps onto your face has Bucky selfishly thinking he has something to do with it. “James. You’re back.”

Bucky gives a closed lip smile back, nodding. His skin burns from the side-eye Sam gives him. Suddenly, his hand is extending out and over the counter, towards you.

“I’m Sam. A friend of James,” he introduces. His smile is nothing short of charming. Bucky’s teeth crunch together so hard he’s amazed they don’t shatter; he somehow holds back his eye roll. You hesitate for a moment before taking his hand and shaking it, smiling cordially.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, introducing yourself. Then, snaking your hand away, your attention turns to Bucky. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Usually see you on a Friday.”

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when you regard him. He shrugs, hands slipping into his jean pockets. You flip one of the pages back into place on the clipboard and give them both a nod farewell.

“I better get upstairs. See you later, hopefully,” you say as you walk out from the reception, towards the staircase. Lily excuses herself and follows you, seemingly needing to grab you for something. In the brief privacy given to them, Sam gives Bucky the widest grin he’s ever seen on his smug face. They speak in low voices.

“So it is a girl.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s cute.”

“I mean it Sam.”

“You should swoop on that.”

Bucky’s head turns so he can meet his gaze dead-on. Sam gives a subtle nod and Bucky sighs, shaking his head, focus returning to the reception. “Drop it, Sam.” Lily wanders over again.

“Sorry about that,” she says, taking place before the computer. She clicks around for some minutes, gathers a few more bits of information to complete the booking, and she’s handing over a key to Sam. Bucky doesn’t need one anymore; he has a claimed locker now. The two of them change and head into the spa amenities. As they pass through the doorway, the humid air sticking to their skin, Sam can’t seem to keep it in any longer.

“She’s into you, man.”

“She’s doing her job,” Bucky sighs, leading them to the steam room. All the sly looks and grilling from Sam have his tension creeping up by the minute. “She’s paid to be nice to people.”

“Maybe,” Sam shrugs. “She wasn’t just being nice to you, though. I saw the way her eyes were looking. She’s got a thing for Freaky Magoo.”

“I’ll push you in the pool. Don’t tempt me,” Bucky warns. Sam chuckles and shakes his head. He seems to drop it with that. As his hand lands on the handle for the steam room, someone is calling his name. The two of them turn to lay eyes on Barbara and Lucy.

“James!” Barbara grins. “Not like you to be here on a Wednesday.”

“One off,” Bucky shrugs. He gestures to his right, to Sam. “Brought a pal along.”

“Good God,” Lucy murmurs underbreath. Her eyes shamelessly rake up and down his body. Barbara rolls her eyes and elbows her.

“Keep it in your swimsuit, Luc,” she chastises.

“Nice to meet you, ladies. You know Tin Man, here?”

“He’s lovely,” Lucy tells him. “We’ve been nagging for him to settle down already. God, we know plenty of nice girls who would want him.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head.

“Funny you should say that,” Sam starts, “there was a certain masseuse at reception that seemed pretty interested.”

Barbara’s face lights up like a city in Christmas. She claps her hands together, brimming with excitement. “I wonder if it was my darl!”

At Sam’s visible confusion, Lucy adds, “Barb’s granddaughter works here. We’ve been trying to set him up but he refuses.”

“Some boundaries I won’t cross, Barb,” Bucky tells her.

As much as he appreciated Barbara and Lucy’s concern for his loneliness, Bucky didn’t need hands piecing his love-life together for him. Back in the thirties, even though he was somewhat of a play-boy, he knew that if the right girl came around, he’d settle down. The house and two-point-five kids had always appealed to him. Mundane routines in the morning, taking the kids to school, spending nights at the dining table with his wife and little ones: he wanted it all. But when the war came, that image had been put on the shelf. With every new chapter of his life that followed, it got pushed further and further back. Now it feels almost out of reach.

Whilst he’d recovered a lot since being pardoned by the government, there were still chunks of him which he couldn’t figure out where to put. Things that different versions of him wanted now sat around like mismatching puzzle pieces. A relationship was one of those things. He wasn’t sure if anybody would ever want him, and even if they did, he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Flirting was still rather daunting. Dating was a foreign language now. The date which he shared with Leah was like pulling teeth. He had no idea what to say, how to act, how to be. He felt like a child walking around in a pair of their parent's shoes, two sizes too big. If Bucky was going to date anybody, it would be on his terms. He would choose when and how and who.

Sam thankfully manages to keep his thoughts about you to himself as they pass their time in the sauna and steam room. Lucy and Barbara are happy to converse, passing stories and sharing advice, and Bucky feels the tension that he’d gathered from the week spent filling out forms and approving various campaign materials roll off his shoulders with the steam and sweat. However, the pocket of peace he’d found is nothing more than an illusion the second they’re entering the reception for their appointments.

“You gonna make a move, then?”

“Oh, good. You’re not past it,” Bucky sarcastically mutters. He doesn’t look at Sam, instead watching the fish. Before Sam can open his mouth again, an employee is approaching them. She has that peaceful serenity masking her face like most employees at the spa did. She greets them and requests they follow her upstairs. Apparently you’re just finishing up one of your appointments, and Sam’s therapist should be ready in a couple of minutes. They’re guided to take a seat in the lounge.

“This place is pretty fancy, huh?” Sam comments. He surveys the lounge and nods approvingly. “I see the appeal, man. I do. Those ladies downstairs were sweet too.”

“Yeah, they’re a good crowd,” Bucky agrees, relaxing now that you’re no longer Sam’s current topic of conversation. “Barbara’s always telling us about her son, Darren. Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Oh, really? How so?”

Bucky lips move as if to speak, but something makes him stop. Sam raises a brow, waiting. Bucky’s brows tug together. His ears catch onto something, a conversation. Words muffled through walls and doors.

“What? What is it?”

Bucky raises a hand and Sam obeys the silent request. Tilting his head slightly, he focuses and tries to listen into the conversation.

‘Come on,’ a guy is saying, ‘You know you want it…’

‘Please stop,’ a woman whimpers.

No, not a woman.

You.

Like a reflex, Bucky is on his feet. He strides through the corridor and shoves his weight against the door. It swings open, whining loudly on its hinges. He knows Sam is on his tail, quick to follow. Bucky’s eyes zero in on you. Your back is pressed against the far wall. Standing in front of you is a man, shirtless; his hands on your waist. It’s red. That’s all Bucky sees. He clears the distance, grabs the man by the back of his neck. His metal arm whirs as he yanks him away. The man gasps out, shocked, scared. Bucky grunts as he tosses him against the massage table. His fingers fasten around his throat, pressing into his neck - enough to bring discomfort, not enough to do any real damage.

He’s seething. Mind a flurry of rage; thoughts jaggered pieces of glass.

“I got him, man,” Sam tells him. He places a hand on Bucky’s metal arm, a quiet mark to surrender. The man stares up at Bucky, eyes wide. There’s a flash of fear Bucky recognises like an old favourite song. The realisation that this might be how he dies. Bucky lets go. The man takes a gasping breath in, as if Bucky had truly been strangling him. Bucky takes a step back and lets Sam step in. He grabs the man by the biceps, muttering “move it”, and watches Sam escort him out of the room.

He lets out a sharp exhale through the nose; jaw a wire trap. He turns, looks over his shoulder. You’re still standing where you were. His expression softens. You’re shaking, hands cupped close to your heart, eyes wide, wet with unshed tears. They’re staring at the doorway, where Sam’s just shown the former client out. When Bucky takes a step towards you, your gaze darts to him. He reaches a hand out, not quite touching your arm.

“You okay?”

You swallow. Your head starts to shake ‘no’. His fingers shadow your skin, touch barely there.

“C’mon. Sit down,” he gently tells you. You let him guide you to the chair that Bucky’s grown used to sitting in. Your leg jitters as you sit, hands wringing together in your lap. “What happened?”

“I don’t know…I…” You shake your head and swallow, licking your dry lips. “One second I’m washing my hands and the next…”

The breath in your body starts to catch. Bucky knows the signs of a panic attack approaching all too well. He places a hand on your knee, the jitters ceasing.

“S’alright. Just focus on breathing, yeah?”

You nod. Take a deep measured breath in through the nose and another through the mouth. Your head hangs, eyes slipped shut, and you continue practising slow, steady breathing for a couple more minutes. You do it until the shaking stops. Until you open your eyes and find his. He gives you a reassuring smile. You try to return it. It’s wobbly, still rattled, but there nonetheless.

“Where is he?”

“Sam took him outside,” Bucky replies.

“You don’t have to be here,” you apologise. “You’re a customer. You should go back out, enjoy your time.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be than here,” is his sincere reply. Your eyes lock onto his. The smile on your face strengthens.

“Thank you,” you quietly say. “For stepping in like that.”

“Course.”

“I had a gut feeling about him when he walked in,” you confess, glancing over his shoulder to the massage table. A shiver runs down your spine at the memory. “He gave me the creeps.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “Shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda thing.”

A gentle knock at the door catches both of your attention. Bucky removes his hand from your knee. It’s Sam, and behind him is Barbara. Sam gives him a nod, confirming that the asshole who thought he could put his hands wherever he wanted was gone. Then, Barbara’s pushing past him and making her way over to you.

“Oh my God, we heard what happened,” she says, voice thick with sympathy. Bucky makes space for you to stand. Barbara tosses her arms around you, pulling you into an embrace, and you hug her back. Your face rests in the dip of her shoulder. “Are you okay, darl?”

Darl.

“Yeah, grams. I’m okay,” you murmur.

“Oh thank God these two were here,” she breathes, relieved. “Lily said that that awful man won’t be coming back. They can call the cops if he does.”

“That’s good.”

You pull away from her, an arm still hooked around her back, and smile appreciatively. Looking over her shoulder, you nod and thank Sam too. “Don’t mention it,” he says, “just glad we could help.”

“You should go home,” Barbara tells you. You shake your head, stepping away from her.

“No, no, I can’t,” you say, “I’ve got two more clients this afternoon.”

“Darling, you’re all shaken up. You need to go home and rest,” your grandmother insists.

“I can’t, grams,” you sigh, exasperated. You brush a hand through your hair. “The trains are on strike today. The next one to Brooklyn isn’t until five, at least.”

“I can give you a ride home.” Bucky’s not completely certain he’s the one who spoke until everyone’s looking at him. He shrugs. “It’s no problem, really.”

“I live all the way in Brooklyn, I couldn’t possibly ask you to drive that far,” you tell him.

“Not an issue. I live in Brooklyn too,” he assures.

“That would be helping us out a lot,” Barbara says gratefully. But you’re still shaking your head. Guilt shadows your eyes as you step towards him.

“Are you sure? I’d hate to put you out like that.”

Bucky nods, smiling at you. “Your grandma’s right. Things like that shake you. You need to get home, relax. I’m more than happy to drive; it’s totally up to you.”

With that reassurance, you only take a few moments to consider his offer before you’re nodding. Looking back to Barbara, you tell her that you’ll need to let Lily know, and your manager. She agrees. A plan is made and soon enough, Bucky’s waiting for you down at reception, bag in hand. The door to the staff quarters opens and there you are, dressed in jeans and a jumper, work attire packed away in the bag that’s slung over your shoulder. It seems you’ve calmed a little since the incident. There’s a playful charm to your voice as you tell him, “last chance to back out.”

Bucky chuckles. He nods his head to the doorway. The two of you head out. It’s bizarre, having you walk out with him. It feels like stepping out of a store with the employee. As you pass the threshold of the doorway to the spa, it feels like you’re walking into a new territory in the bond the two of you share. The strange relationship that doesn’t quite qualify as friendship, but surpasses something purely professional. The label of masseuse falls away: instead, you’re just you.

“This one’s mine,” Bucky off-handedly says, unlocking a black hatchback. He pops the trunk and gestures for you to put your bag in; you do so, slotting it beside his. It smells of fresh linen thanks to the air freshener as the two of you climb in. When the door shuts, you let out a small sigh.

“You sure about this? I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me a ride back just because.”

“I offered, for one thing,” Bucky chuckles, turning on the engine. He glances over to you, smiling. “And it’s up to you whether to take me up on it or not. If you wanna head back and stay at work, then do. But don’t turn down a ride just to be polite.”

You cock a brow, smirking. “Pretty good speech there.”

Laughing, he shakes his head. Your answer is the click of your seatbelt into place. Bucky pulls out of the parking lot and starts the route back to Brooklyn. The playlist he was listening to on the drive to the spa kicks up again, the gravelly voice of Elvis seeping through the speakers.

“Elvis fan, huh?”

“Undecided,” he replies. “Only just started listening to him.”

“He’s alright,” you shrug. “Questionable history though. Did you know he met his wife when she was fourteen?”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Bucky murmurs. High school sweethearts were a rarity but a nice tale when they occurred.

“He was twenty-four.”

“Ah,” his tongue clicks. “Less sweet.”

“Much.”

“Mm,” he nods.

“Y’know who is good?” you ask, rhetorically it seems, as you answer, “Lionel Richie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re kidding,” you gasp. The pure astonishment in your voice has him laughing. “He’s basically the definition of romance.”

“Queue him up, if you like,” he says, gesturing to the touch screen of the radio. You gladly take him up on the offer. Your fingernail taps the screen as you type, and then the song is cutting off and switching. A low bass riff vibrates the car. Humming contently, you relax back into your seat. A saxophone joins, a long, sensual melody that sounds like velvet. Lionel Richie, Bucky assumes, begins to sing. You sing along quietly, under breath, as if it’s a secret. His lips twitch.

“Nice, right?”

“Yeah. I like it,” Bucky agrees. The music washes over him like a warm shower; picking pebbles off his shoulders. “He marry a fourteen-year-old too?”

The giggle you let out has him smiling to himself. It’s like gold dust, making you laugh. “No, but I think he maybe beat his wife.”

“God damn,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head.

The ride stretches on. Trees and fields lining the highway merge into the cityscape. The sun sits low in the sky. It casts the world in an enchanting amber tinge, like lining around buildings. The blue sky has clouds shaded pink. His eyes flit to you. You’re leaning against the door of the car, content, watching the world roll by. Whilst Bucky would have preferred different circumstances to have the excuse to drive you home, he’s still grateful to have the privilege of being in your presence. You remind him of the first long day after winter, when the sun stretches on for hours, and the world feels brighter, awake, lifted free from a veil of darkness.

As you cross into the city, you start to give Bucky directions to your building.

“Just this one, on the right.”

He slows the car down, pulling up beside the pavement. The rumble of the engine quiets as he turns the key. You purse your lips, clear your throat.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

Bucky nods. “You’re welcome.”

You unclick your seatbelt. He does the same. Turning in your seat, you face him. His eyes scan over your face, searching for some remnant of distress from before. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I am. Just need a nice shower and some sleep, I think,” you reply. Your smile dims, eyes downcast to your fidgeting fingers. “Just feel kinda stupid.”

“How so?” Bucky frowns.

“I just froze up. Didn’t do anything, just stood there,” you sigh. Your eyes nervously glance back up to his. Bucky shakes his head.

“S’normal reaction. People always talk about fight or flight, but they never talk about freeze. You weren’t prepared for that kinda situation. And why should you be? You’re just tryn’a do your job. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. Ashamed, even.”

You nod, reluctantly agreeing. Women have a tendency to place the blame on themselves; society’s made it that way. You shouldering the situation that another man put you in doesn’t sit right with Bucky. He’ll be damned if you feel embarrassed for how you acted.

“Guess you just made it look so easy. Coming in and grabbing him like that.”

Bucky shrugs. His eyes lower down to his metal hand. He flexes his fingers and watches how the intricate plates glide into place. He was fight. Always had been, since he was a kid. He sort of had to be, what with Steve Rogers being his best friend. That punk could find a fight with anyone, anywhere, always trying to do the right thing. Shame his bark didn’t always match his bite.

“Suppose it helps having Captain America there, too.”

Bucky’s eyes darted up to yours. His organs fall through him: heart in his stomach; stomach in his feet. He swallows the bile scratching at his throat. You’re watching him, a patient smile on your face, brows slanted as if preparing for his reaction. Sympathetic, perhaps. Understanding. He wants to ask but can’t seem to find the words. His body contorts within itself; his intestines tangle into his guts. He feels sick. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t fight, because right now, Bucky can’t think of anything better than running.

“I know who you are too, Bucky.”

The words are hardly louder than a whisper. But from the way they shatter Bucky’s world, you might as well have yelled.

He can’t seem to look away from you. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to say something. Do something. Berate him. Insult him. Accuse him of lying to you. Rebuke him for deceiving you. Bucky waits for the loathing to come. For it to twist your beautiful face, narrow your gaze, curl your lips. But instead, you just sit.

A hand slowly reaches across the centre console. Your fingers steadily come to rest atop of his metal hand. It’s enough to help Bucky speak.

“How long have you known?” he croaks.

“The moment I met you,” you confess. Bucky’s not sure which answer he would have preferred. “Not many war vets who go by the name ‘James Barnes’ with a metal arm. Then grandma started talking and I pieced it all together by the end of the first day. Seeing Sam today just made me know I was right.”

“You never said.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t want to freak you out, or make you uncomfortable. I got the sense that it’s an escape for you there, and I didn’t want to take that away from you. ‘Sides, not like it matters.”

“Can’t say that,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. His eyes gaze out the windscreen. There’s a pigeon in the centre of the road, fighting for a piece of stale bread with another. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know enough to know you’re a good person.”

Bucky’s eyes slip shut like hearing the words are physically painful. Your fingers squeeze his hand. There’s no give under metal. Nothing but cold, hard ice. His eyes eventually open but he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. His head is still wrapping around everything, grasping at the fact that you know who is and yet here you are, willingly sitting beside him, telling him that he’s good. There’s something about hearing you say it that makes Bucky want to believe it might be true. His silence stretches for miles as he thinks. It builds and builds until it seems to suffocate you.

“I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”

He looks over to you. You pull your hand away, pressing it against your lips with the other, and you curse yourself quietly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shake your head.

“I knew it. I freaked you out. Can’t keep my big mouth shut.” Bucky’s brows twitch together. You look out the window, wringing your hands in your lap. “God, here you are coming to a spa to get some peace, and then you have to save some random girl from a creep, give her a drive home to be nice and she completely invades your privacy all because she has a stupid crush on you, like I’m twelve years old again or something.”

His stomach clenches. You’re looking at him now, eyes wide with apology.

“Just forget I said anything,” you almost beg. “I promise I’ll never bring it up again. Okay?”

Bucky doesn’t move but you seem to take his silence as confirmation. You climb out the car like it’s on fire and speed walk up to your apartment building. Everything you said came out so fast, he thinks he might have whiplash. It takes a couple of seconds for his mind to catch up, and for Bucky to get out of the car and follow you. He’s quick as he grabs your bag from the trunk. It seems you’ve realised in that moment that your keys are in your bag, still safely in the back of his car. As you go to retrieve it, you gasp, stopping as you come face-to-face with Bucky. Before you can continue your self-deprecating rampage, Bucky drops the bag by his feet and speaks.

“I get three massages a month. Three. You know why that is?”

You stare at him for a long moment before answering, “because it helps you sleep?”

Bucky’s lips twitch with a smile. “Yeah, it does. But that’s not the only reason.” He takes a step closer. “I needed an excuse to see you.”

Something flickers in your eyes. Bucky takes another step closer. “I wanted to say something but I didn’t know if I should. You’re just doing your job. Last thing you need is some one-hundred-year-old creep telling you he thinks you’re pretty.”

There’s a flicker of a smile.

“Can you tell the time?” you ask him. His confusion must be obvious. You laugh: short, small, secretive. “I always give you an extra fifteen minutes because I don’t like it when you leave. You’re my favourite part of the day.”

A weight falls off Bucky’s shoulders. He can’t look away from you, bewitched like staring at a supernova. He could spend his life trying to describe you and he’d never have enough words. Time would give out before he could finish trying to fathom how you make him feel. Bucky thinks back to earlier, with Sam and Barbara and Lucy. Somehow, it feels like a lifetime ago. The inner-battle he’d had returns to him: loneliness in one hand, and chance in another. He contemplates. He decides.

“Can I take you out?”

You’re still for a second, then you nod. The smile grows bit by bit like drops of water in a bucket. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Dinner, maybe? Next Saturday? I’d say tomorrow but I’ve got this stupid meeting I gotta go too–”

“--next Saturday is perfect,” you interrupt, like you can’t hold the words in. Your hand takes his and you give a gentle squeeze. The tips of your fingers are cold. “I can give you my number and we can work something out?”

Bucky nods. His smile teetering on a grin. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to retrieve his phone. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a nervous smile on his face, as he hands over the outdated flip phone. You don’t comment. Instead, you take it and type in your number. A few seconds later, your phone buzzes with a message that presumably you’ve sent. You hand him back his phone. He passes over your bag.

“Perfect,” Bucky says, giving the device a small shake before putting it back in his pocket. He takes a step down the staircase. You take a step towards the door to your building. “I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Those three words are the only thing in Bucky’s head the drive back to his apartment. When he walks into his empty place, his hands find his phone. Your contact name has him smiling like he’s eighty years younger. There’s one text message attached, the one you sent to yourself earlier despite being addressed for him: I’m free next Saturday.

The mint in Bucky’s mouth crunches against his teeth. It’s nice to have something to do. A distraction, like fiddling with a piece of string, as he waits at a table for two in an Italian restaurant you’d passingly said you’d like to try. It’s overtly romantic: cream silk table cloths; vases with single stemmed roses; candles flickering in the centre of the table. Jazz music purrs out the speakers. Waiters and waitresses dressed in pressed black pants and skirts and white button-up shirts, an apron tied neatly with a bow around their waist. Bucky takes another sip of his table water. He’s nervous, the same way he was the first day of his therapy session and his first time at the spa. It feels as though there’s a sign above him glowing with the words ‘DOESN’T BELONG HERE’, and a fluorescent arrow pointing down at his head. He swipes a hand over his beard. He’d trimmed it specifically for tonight. His hair had been combed probably one too many times. He’d flossed and eaten five mints so far as a nice pre-dinner appetiser. The deep blue suit jacket suddenly feels like it might be too formal, and with that the whole date feels like it might be too much. He doesn’t want to freak you out. Scare you off. He looks to his left with a busy mind and scans the bar.

“This seat taken?”

His head whips round to spot you standing beside the chair, a hand delicately placed atop of it. With your smile, Bucky feels his tension slip away with his breath. You look beautiful. Slightly unrecognisable in a dress that moved like summer rain; make-up enhancing your already gorgeous features; hair loose and free. He smiles. “It is now.”

You take the invitation and tuck yourself in. “Been waiting long?”

“Just a couple hours,” Bucky shrugs. Your eyes widen and he chuckles. “I’m messing with you. I got here ten minutes early, don’t worry.”

“Damn you, Barnes,” you murmur, smile telling of your humour. Your fingers open the menu placed before you. “I’ve been wanting to come here forever. Walk past it all the time.”

“I know,” Bucky says, opening his own menu. “You told me so, about a month ago.”

Your eyes dart over the table to him. “You remember that?”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Course.”

A bottle of wine is ordered and the two of you toast to good health before taking a sip. Your lipstick leaves a stain on the edge of the glass. A strand of hair slips free from behind your ear and dangles by your cheek, head hung as you prop yourself up on your fist, reading the menu. Bucky can’t help but admire you. Gracefully, you tuck it back into place and hum in thought.

“You look beautiful,” he tells you. You glance up at him, stunned, and then you smile.

“Thanks.” There’s a flush to your face. Bucky bites back his idiotic smile. “So do you. Handsome.”

His heart twists. God damn it. “Thanks. Trimmed my beard,” he hears himself reply, stroking the coarse hairs of his jaw.

“I noticed. It looks good,” you say. You're casual as you look back down to the menu, adding, “I like a man with a beard.”

Bucky makes a mental note: never shave beard.

It’s awkward at first. This area of the relationship feels like picketed grass which has been previously forbidden. The compliments Bucky would silently relay to you in his head can now be spoken. They come clunky at first, but easier after the first few are shared. His eyes linger longer, his smile holding a new edge. There’s no need to be coy anymore and tiptoe around things. Once that’s acknowledged, the two of you sink into the date as if it’s your third rather than your first. You order the ravioli and him the lemon and herb salmon. You tell him a story from work the other day and he tells you one from a plane ride he had to Washington for a campaign fundraiser. The drinks flow, the food comes and goes. You offer him a bite of your pasta off the fork. As the empty bowls and plates are taken by the waiter, Bucky wonders what had him so nervous.

“I still can’t believe you never put two and two together about me and granny Barbs,” you giggle. Your finger toys with the rim of your wine glass.

“In my defense, it’s not like you’re the spitting image.”

You laugh, head titling backwards like a little kid, and Bucky grins. He likes the fact that he can make you laugh. There was a time when he was sure he’d never be able to tell a joke again, or get a girl to swoon, and yet here he was.

“Still. Surely she talks about all the family gossip with you and Lucy,” you say.

“Not about you. I’ve gotten my fair share about Darren, though.” Your lips press together, smiling still, but smaller. Bucky treads carefully as he asks, “if you’re Barbara’s granddaughter, then that makes Darren your…uncle?”

A solemn shadow casts over your pretty face. “Darren’s my dad.”

Bucky nods his head slowly, visibly surprised, lips parting. “Ah. He certainly seems…”

You save Bucky from fumbling with something kind to say, laughing sadly as you joke, “like a Freudian nightmare? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“Yeah. I haven’t heard great things,” Bucky says apologetically.

You shake your head and sigh. Your gaze drifts down to your wine glass and once more, you trace your finger around the circular rim, following it with your eyes. “I love my dad in the way that every daughter loves their dad. Y’know, in an innate kinda way? But I don’t like him. In fact, I can’t stand the guy. I haven’t had a conversation with him in over a year.”

Bucky is quiet as he nods. Your eyes glance up to meet his. As always, your smile never leaves, it only changes. It’s small, sad, heavy with the disappointment of a girl who once admired her father, only to realise the pedestal was made of sand.

“And your mom’s still with him?” he broaches.

You scoff, sighing. “Yep. She refuses to leave. She’s sick. Has been for a long time now. She says she doesn’t want her last years to be wasted with divorce. I don’t know - I’d rather that than spend my time with a dirtbag who swoops on anything with a pulse, but that’s just me…”

You cut yourself off with another quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you say, picking up your glass of wine. “Not exactly a wonderful first date topic, huh? Offloading all my daddy issues.”

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Bucky reassures. You take a sip and hesitantly meet his gaze. He smiles, empathetic. “My dad was a piece of crap too, so.”

“Ah. Good to see some things span across the generations.”

Bucky laughs. It was typical of you to find the sunlight in a blackened room. You raise your half-empty wine glass in the air and Bucky takes the hint, grabbing his own. “To shitty fathers.”

“Cheers to that,” he chuckles, his glass clinking against your. You both take a sip: the rich red wine soaking onto his tongue. “I gotta ask - and I’m probably out of line so please tell me to shut up- but your grandma said something about your mom’s sister…?”

“Ah. That old chestnut,” you kid, voice void of any real humour. “Yeah. The baby showers in a couple weekend’s time. Granny wants me to go with her to have a ‘familiar face’ there. I can’t think of anything worse.”

Bucky shakes his head, disbelieving. It was one thing to know your dad was a creep and a cheating coward - it was another to wrap your head around the fact that what was going to be your niece was also your half-sister. Bucky had seen and heard some pretty messed up things in his lifetime, and this wasn’t far off.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to go to that,” Bucky tells you.

You shrug and take another sip of your wine. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” There’s a twinkle in your eye as you return your glass to the table, attention switching to him. “Now tell me about how your dad was a piece of crap so I feel less of a disaster-first-date.”

Bucky laughs and nods, indulging. “Alright. You want the short version or the long?”

“Oh - I didn’t know there was a choice,” you hum, leaning forward on the table, chin propped atop of your closed fist. “Long version.”

“Alright then,” Bucky clicks his tongue. His mind journeys back to before the torment and the ice and the torture. It goes right back to before the war. He smiles as if he can picture his mother’s living room: like he can smell the embers of a burnout fire in the hearth. There his dad would sit, in the dusty armchair by the window, usually with a paper in hand. “I loved my dad. He was strong and stoic, y’know? The kinda guy you felt like you could go to in a crisis and he’d have it covered in a second.”

You nod.

“He was drafted into the first war and everything changed. He changed. He was always quiet before but he became mean. Distant. Didn’t wanna talk, didn’t wanna listen. Didn’t care about anything, really. He started fighting with my mama over stupid things, things they wouldn’t have fought about before. He didn’t give a crap about me or Becca. Everything was just work to him, all of a sudden. Like being around us was like doing a chore.”

You nod once more, eyebrows slanting with sympathy. Bucky takes a breath, clears his throat; his finger strokes the base of his wine glass.

“One day I come home from work and there he is, stood in the kitchen with a suitcase. He was waiting for me to get home, apparently, to make this big announcement. He was leaving.”

Your breath catches. Bucky shrugs, eyes slipping down to study the table cloth as he loses himself in the memory. It feels just as disorientating now as it did back then. Tired, hands aching from labour, mind fuzzy with exhaustion and confusion, staring at his dad dressed in his Sunday best.

“Mom begged to know why. If there was another woman, maybe. But he didn’t give us anything. He just said he had to go. And that was it,” Bucky says, eyes meeting yours once more. “He was gone. Never saw him again.”

“Just like that?” you quietly wonder.

He nods. “Just like that. Left my mom all alone without a dollar to her name, two kids. Then I got drafted when the second war came and I had to leave them both, and it–”

He cuts himself off with a sigh, losing nerve. Your hand reaches across the table, lying atop of his metal one. You squeeze gently. Bucky wants to retract his hand and shrug it away like he did when it happened. But something makes him sit in the moment of vulnerability. It doesn’t feel as daunting when it’s you, especially with how you’re looking at him. Like you care. Like you understand. Instead, he envelopes his other palm atop of your hand and smiles at you. You smile back, reassuring, and he sighs once more.

“It killed me, ‘cause after my dad left I promised myself that I’d never abandon the people I love like he did…And then I never came back.”

You begin to shake your head. “That’s different, Bucky.”

“How is it?”

“You didn’t abandon them. You were taken from them.”

Bucky stares at you and you stare back. Your voice is firm and sweet like cookie batter. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” you say, “the main one being that one of them is a choice and the other isn’t. You didn’t choose to leave your family, the way they didn’t choose to lose you. Your dad, on the other hand, chose to.”

Bucky considers this a moment, turning it over in his mind. It’s a new perspective - a side to a shape that he’s never seen before. With that, something somewhat new occurs to him. “I think the war broke him. He just couldn’t handle it.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “But that’s not an excuse to leave in the way he did. Not to me.”

Nodding, Bucky’s eyes drift down to your interlocked hands. Another weight is slowly lifted off his shoulders, and once again, it’s thanks to you. Never before did he think he’d be unpicking traumas from before the war even began. But here you were, teasing him apart carefully like untangling a necklace chain. Bucky begins to smile. “Hell of a first date, huh?”

“I’ll say,” you grin. Then you squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you told me that.”

“I’m glad you told me about yours too,” Bucky replies sincerely.

You shrug, a playful glimmer in your expression. “Barbara sort of beat me to it. Hard to be mysterious when you have a gossip for a gran.”

He laughs at that. The two of you sit in the lifted mood for a moment and a waiter comes over. He plants a dessert menu down in front of each of you, and Bucky reluctantly pulls his hand from yours. You thank the waiter as he leaves. Surveying the desserts, you make a joke about one of the cheesecake flavours, and that leads into another anecdote about the time you tried to make chocolate mousse, and the gravity of the prior conversation lifts away. Bucky watches you from across the table, dazzling in the candle light, dressed in an emerald green dress, smiling and giggling and chattering away as if you’d known Bucky all your life. You’re carefree around him and it makes him feel normal, like he’s the Bucky he was before everything happened. If he focuses just on you he can pretend it’s the forties: the world melts away and it’s just him and a pretty girl.

Bucky insists on paying. You complain about it half the walk home, insisting that next time it’s on your dime. The only thing Bucky hears is the ‘next time’. You hold his hand, fingers intertwined with his gloved ones, and chatter. Questions are passed back and forth and Bucky’s happy to indulge. The hem of your dress sways with every step you take; heels clicking on the pavement. He wants the sidewalk to stretch on forever. But eventually, you get to your building. You unlock the door, push it open and turn to him.

“You wanna come up for a nightcap?”

Bucky hesitates for only a second before agreeing with a “sure”. You smile and lead him. Three flights of stairs and Bucky’s walking into your apartment. You toe off your heels and weave through the hallway, talking as you go about your latest squabble with Barbara.

“In the end we called it even. Better to do that then spend the rest of the week arguing…”

Bucky’s half listening. He glances around the small entryway as he slips off his shoes. Pictures hang on the walls. They’re all of you and your friends. There’s a motivational quote embroidered into a hoop that hangs against a door. A mirror fills up a small slither of wall. Bucky glances in it and checks himself.

“You want coffee or tea?”

With that, he follows your route into a living area. It’s open plan, half sitting room, half kitchen. “You have tea?”

“Course. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” you reply.

“Coffee’s great, thanks,” Bucky tells you. You nod and open your fridge.

“Take a seat wherever.”

“This is a nice place,” he comments, sinking down onto the sofa. It’s squishy, sucks him in like a marshmallow: a plethora of throw cushions keep him nicely propped. As you make coffee and reel off some random facts and price points for the place, Bucky takes it in. Books upon books, a few about mindfulness and massage therapy; an empty bottle of champagne from a seemingly notable occasion; ornaments which imitate landmarks - the Eiffel tower; Big Ben, the pyramids; a bouquet of flowers sits in a vase on a small dining table, just big enough to seat two. It’s warmly lit. A string of fairy lights slinks from one side of the room to the other.

Bucky watches you walk over. You sit down beside him, curling one leg under you, and offer him one of the mugs. He thanks you and nurses it. The skirt of your dress rides up, just long enough to save modesty, and like a teenager realising girls exist for the first time, Bucky tries his best not to stare.

“I had a really fun time tonight,” you tell him, taking a sip of your steaming mug. Bucky smiles.

“Me too. I’m glad we did this.”

You shuffle a little in your seat. Propping an arm up on the back of the headrest, you lean your cheek against it and gaze at him. He chuckles.

“What?”

“Just thinking…Wanna ask you something but don’t know if it’s exactly first-date appropriate,” you say.

Bucky rolls his eyes mirthfully and takes a sip of his coffee. “Feel like we’ve known each other long enough to forget about those kinda rules.”

“In that case: when was the last date you went on?”

Bucky’s brows twitch up; he wasn’t expecting that question. He looks down towards his lap, watching how his metal thumb rubs the porcelain handle of the mug. “Uh…About a year ago. Maybe slightly longer.”

“Oh really? How was it?”

Internally cringing at the memory, Bucky chuckles quietly. He shakes his head. “Not so hot.”

“Oh,” you hum. “Well, that’s a shame.”

He shrugs and turns his head to look at you. You’re so laid back: sock clad feet wiggling restlessly. “Not really. Means I’m here right now with you.”

“Ooh,” you grin, nose crinkling. “Nice line.”

“I try,” he suavely returns. You chuckle. He smiles. The coffee is good. “What about you?”

“Three…No, four years ago.”

“Four?”

“Don’t have to sound so horrified,” you snort. Bucky laughs, apologising.

“I’m just surprised. You’re gorgeous. Don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to take you out. Treat you nice.”

The fluster his words bring doesn’t go unnoticed. His ego triumphs. The smile on your face sinks into something more unshielded; as if peeling back some curtain. “Want the truth?”

Bucky nods. You sigh. “Most guys these days don’t know what they want. I’m not a one-night-kinda girl, and I need stability. An idea of where things are heading. That usually freaks people out. So it’s easier not to bother than to let myself get invested, only to wind up disappointed.”

He nods once more. You wash your words down with a sip of your coffee. “I get it,” Bucky tells you. “I tried the whole online dating scene. It’s a mess. Don’t know what I’m looking at half the time. And it feels like people can say anything on there without really meaning it.”

You hum in agreement, nodding, and meet his eyes again. Bucky’s flit down to your lips. They’re glossy from the lipstick you’d chosen, shimmering slightly in the twinkling fairy lights. He swallows. Then, he looks away, back down to the floor.

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Bucky admits. “Dating, I mean. I don’t know what’s right and wrong. What’s old and what’s new. I mean, that date I went on, I brought her flowers. Pretty standard thing to do, back in my time, but she sort of laughed it off. Don’t think she meant any harm but still…Shakes a guy’s confidence, y’know?”

“I get it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you quite yet. In his peripheral, you lean down to place your mug gently on the wooden floor. “I’m always scared I’m too much. It’s like there’s this unspoken boundary you can’t cross and I never know where it is.”

Laughing under breath, agreeing, Bucky smiles smally to himself. “Yeah.”

“For the record,” something in your tone has him looking back up at you. The smile he’s met with is like the first day of Spring. It fills him with fresh air. “I love flowers. Don’t think I’d ever laugh at something like that.”

There’s a quick rush of adrenaline as Bucky sets his mind. He places his coffee mug quickly but carefully on the table to his left, and then, before he can lose his confidence, he’s reaching over to you and capturing your face in his hand. Leaning over, his lips find yours, and his eyes slip shut. Your breath catches, mouth parting with a split-second of surprise. Then your hand is reaching up to rest atop of his, and you press into his hold, and kiss him back. The feel of your right hand on his thigh has his body sparking to life like he’s been in hibernation. You lean your weight forward slightly, sighing against Bucky’s mouth, and he pulls away for a breath before kissing you again. Harder. Deeper. Fingertips run down along his forearm, up his shoulder, until they’re looping into his hair. You give a gentle tug and Bucky groans against your lips. You smile. He can feel it. He smiles too.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur into the kiss. Bucky’s teeth catch against your lower lip and you gasp. The breath that escapes you is shaky as he pulls just-so before letting go, kissing away the sting. Your fingers tighten in his locks. He smirks. It’s coming back to him; muscle memory, like dancing or riding a bike. Every little sound you make; every twitch of your fingers; every push and pull of your body: it drives him. Feeds him. He needs more, more, more. Somehow, you find yourself beneath him on your back. Bucky looms over you, propped up by his left arm, and he ventures further. Kisses the corner of your mouth, still shadowed with a smile. Kisses the cusp of your jaw. Suckles slightly at the tender skin of your neck, teeth scratching tauntingly at your jugular.

“Bucky,” you sigh, head rocking backwards as if to present him with a fresh canvas.

He moans against your flesh. Your perfumed skin is pressed to his nose and it intoxicates him like liquor and turns him on like pheromones. His right hand sweeps down and along your figure. The forest green of your dress, silk and satin, bunches in his fingers as he squeezes your waist. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Bucky’s body is alight with a fire that’s laid dormant for years. Centuries. Blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp. But as his fingers feel the lace of your panties through the thin material of your dress, Bucky remembers where he is and what he’s doing. He eases off slightly. Peppers kisses until his lips find yours again. You pull him closer by the nape of his neck, tongue lapping salaciously into his mouth with a wanton moan. Bucky indulges for a moment before slowly pulling away. He opens his eyes to find you gazing up at him. Your pupils are blown wide like you’re stoned. Lips wet and swollen. You look fucking delicious. His hand parts from the side of your frame to come up to your face, swiping gently at your lower lip. You smile up at him. Bucky smiles back. He rubs his lips together and savours the taste of you. You somehow read his mind. It’s playful, understanding, as you whisper, “unspoken boundaries.”

He chuckles. “Plenty of time.”

“There better be,” you murmur, making him laugh harder. You plant one final peck to his lips. Bucky crawls off you and you sit back up, propping onto your arms. He reaches a hand on instinctively to help flatten some of your hair and you giggle, flustered.

“Beautiful.”

The way you look at him is how any man would want to be looked at. As if there’s nothing else on the planet that will matter as much as he does. A twinge of nausea turns over in his stomach with dooming realisation. Like stepping off a cliff, Bucky was falling in love with you. Hard, fast, indomitably so. And the thing which seemed to terrify him the most was the fact that he wasn’t scared of it. Not even slightly.

After the first date, Bucky had taken you on a second: drinks in a basement bar in Brooklyn, specialised in ‘surprise’ cocktails and craft beers. He’d brought you flowers. He’d walked you home and kissed you at the doorstep. He lingered and left. The third date was to a farmer’s market hosted in a city park. You’d wandered from stall to stall, hands intertwined with his, clad in a springtime jacket that made your skin seemingly glow under the daylight. It seemed you could spark up a conversation with anybody. Everything was interesting to you, from how beeswax soap was made to which cheese was the most challenging to produce. You’d drank coffee together whilst sat on an outdoor table outside of the New York City Library. He’d parted ways with you at the subway station, leaving you with a kiss, as you went to catch another train to work.

Bucky still attended the spa. In the three weeks which followed the dinner date, Bucky had gone once for each. You were very professional, he had come to learn. Nothing more than a peck behind the closed door and another before he left, lingering if only slightly. But the massages remained the same. You followed routine, giving gentle heads-ups before placing your hands on his frame. Bucky didn’t need them much anymore. His trust in you shocked him to the core; it took nearly a year for Bucky to give a fraction of that level of trust to Sam. But he was certain that you could walk into the room with a knife and he’d think nothing of harm.

“I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say, walking over to the sink. As you rinse them thoroughly under running water, Bucky props himself up onto his elbows. You walk over to him, standing at the head of the table to meet his gaze. “How you feeling?”

“Like a million dollars,” he says with a charming smile. You smile and lean forward to kiss him. You don’t give him time to try and search for more, pulling away all too quickly. Stepping away to tidy away some of the oils and lotions - the mystery of the behind-the-scenes now removed - Bucky climbs off the table and retrieves his robe.

“So, I have an update on that whole baby shower thing,” you say. Bucky heads to the jewellery pot to retrieve his dog togs.

“Oh?”

“Apparently I’m out of the will if I don’t go, according to Barbara,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. Bucky quirks a brow, hooking his tags over his neck.

“You gonna go?”

You shrug. Twisting a lid back onto a tub of lotion, you say, “I’ve been giving it some thought. I think I should go.”

“Really?” he frowns. He crosses the room to lean against the massage bed, arms folded over his chest, watching you work.

“It’s not fair to the baby,” you sigh. You slide the tub back onto the shelf. “It didn’t ask to be born into some weird-Greek-tragedy nightmare. ‘Sides, I always wanted a sibling. Guess it’s my fault for not being more specific when I made my birthday wishes.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling smally. “You’re incredible, y’know that? I mean, seriously, not a lot of people would take this in stride like you are.”

You laugh. “Believe me - I am not taking it in stride. I just figure it’s worth giving the baby a chance. Don’t want it to be treated like the black sheep.”

He shakes his head again. “Better person than me, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” you hum. You busy your hands with folding the blanket that had been covering Bucky’s body. He can’t catch your gaze. “I was kind of thinking it might be slightly more bearable if there was a familiar face there, just for me?” Bucky’s brows raise. You finally meet his eyes. “Wanna be my plus one?”

“You sure? Your family’s gonna be there, right?”

“Not really. Just my aunt and granny Barbs. Lucy’ll probably come too; they’re like a package deal.”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky interrupts. “Are they…?”

“Gay?” You guess. He nods. Laughing, you shake your head. “Not that I’m aware of. Just lifelong friends, really. I call her aunt Lucy - she’s been around as long as I can remember.”

“Just thought it was worth checking,” Bucky hums, shrugging. “So, anyway, you were saying: your aunt, your gran, Lucy…”

“And some of the blushing soon-to-be-mother’s friends, probably,” you finish. “My mom and aunt’s mother died way back when, before I was even born. Grandpoppy too. And mom is, of course, refusing to go.”

“Seems fair,” Bucky mutters.

“Daddy dearest is at work so we’re free of him. So really, it’s just two blood relatives.”

“Just two, huh?” he says. He clears the space between the two of you, taking the blanket from your hands and lying it on the table. With that, he places his open palms on your hips, tugging you closer. “Think I can handle that.”

“You sure? You might be about to witness a Shakespearan drama up close.”

“Lifelong dream.”

Smiling up at him, you push up onto your toes and kiss him dead on the lips. Bucky smiles. “You’re perfect,” you say against his damp mouth. “Thank you.”

The words catch in his throat. Anything for you.

As decided two days prior, Bucky picks you up from outside your flat. Your aunt’s house was just outside of the city, not far from the spa, and you’d offered to take the train, but he figured driving was better. It gave him an excuse to have you all to himself for close to an hour. Lionel Richie crooned out of the speakers the whole ride there, accompanied by your slightly off-key harmonies. He’d smiled stupid most of the journey. But as the two of you neared the house, only five minutes away, your joy seemed to fizzle out like sun behind clouds.

“You good over there?”

“Just mentally preparing,” you murmur. You’re staring out the side window. “I haven’t seen aunt Millie since before the Blip.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “Feels like I’m betraying mom, though.”

“Does she know you’re going?” Bucky asks. His eyes flit over to you, concerned. You shake your head.

“Her memory isn’t all that good these days. Thought it wasn’t worth the stress for her. ‘Sides, it’s not like we’re particularly close anyway.”

Bucky’s heart clenches. If someone were to ask him what he thought your family was like, he would have offered up two proud as peach parents and a little brother or sister who adored you. Instead, it seemed the only person worth their salt in your family tree was Barbara - second to you, of course. Whilst Bucky’s dad was a disappointment in the end, he still had fond memories of his childhood, and even after with his mom and sister. Steve was like a brother, and his parents a second set to his own. He never went without love or support, in some way or another. From the small stories you’d scattered within your time together, Bucky had built up a rather lonely picture of your upbringing. And yet here you were, far from bitter and still willing to step into the most mind-blowing scenario simply to prove to an unborn baby that you would try.

His hand reaches across the seats until it lands on your knee. He squeezes reassuringly. Your warm palm envelopes over it and you catch his gaze. The two of you share a smile, a silent promise to go into this as a team.

“Barbara and Lucy might just lose their minds when they see you, by the way,” you tell him, lightening the tone.

Bucky grins, eyes drifting back to the road. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to shift gears, preparing to turn down another street. “I’m ready for the grilling.”

“Oh, nothing could prepare you for their grilling,” you warn, making him laugh.

The house is charming. As Bucky pulls onto the driveway, he takes note of the magnificent topiaries and trimmed bushes. Flower beds line the front of the bricked building: cream painted window panes outlined with ivy. It’s like something from a fairytale book: enchanting and bewitching. Around the doorframe are balloons which rustle in the wind: blue and pink. Bucky puts the car into park and shuts off the engine. You’ve gone quiet. You’re staring at the house, lost in thought.

“We don’t have to do this, y’know,” Bucky hears himself tell you. You don’t move, don’t look at him. “We can go right back to the city. Or just keep driving. Whatever you want.”

The silence stretches. Then, you shake your head. You turn to face him, a smile pushing onto your face. “No,” you say. “No, I need to do this. For the baby.”

He nods. When he gets out of the car, you follow. Retrieving a pair of gift bags from the back seat, Bucky hands one to you and carries the other. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as the two of you head to the door. You take a deep breath in and knock. There’s music inside, muffled by the bricks and wood, and the vague sound of animated chatter. Bucky’s spine bristles. He didn’t love new people, or gatherings, or gatherings of new people. But this was important to you. You needed someone to be there for you, to help get you through it, and Bucky would be damned if that person wasn’t him. He’d opted for a long sleeved henley, deep blue, and jeans. His metal hand was on display but it didn’t draw too much attention, or at least he hoped so.

The door swung open before he could obsess much more about his appearance. A lady stood, face round and cheeks flushed. She was heavily pregnant. This must be Aunt Millie. Bucky clenched his jaw and tried to find his inner peace.

“Darling!” she cooed, throwing her arms around you. You were visibly stiff, reluctantly returning the embracement. “So glad you could make it!”

“Of course, aunt Mil,” you murmur. As she pulls away, her eyes naturally drift to Bucky. She eyes him with slight suspicion. “This is my friend, James.”

“James,” aunt Millie echoes, reaching out a hand. Bucky shakes it with his right. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. Congratulations,” he says, sounding far from enthused. She smiles nonetheless. Her hand retracts to smooth over her baby bump. Bucky feels slightly sick.

“Nearly there. Daz says I’m about to pop any day now,” she says, rolling her eyes mirthfully. It’s your turn to clench your jaw. It seems an unfamiliar tick for someone so peaceful and relaxed as yourself. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s in the living room!”

You follow after her, Bucky in tow, and the pair of you step into an unfortunately beautiful living area. The homely interior looks like a stork has gone to town on it: blue and pink bunting strung on every wall; streamers dangling from the ceiling, pearly white; balloons everywhere. Poppy music plays from an Alexa. Drinks are laid out on an ebony cart, labels beside pitchers of blue and pink concoctions with cute baby puns. An impressive spread of food is on another console table. Party guests sit on the sofas and in armchairs, a few on stools. Bucky’s eyes land on Barbara. She’s brooding in the corner, a party hat skew-whiff on her head. She hasn’t seemed to notice him yet.

“Everybody!” Aunt Millie calls. The conversations die down. What seems to be nine pairs of eyes drift over to you and Bucky. “Some new guests have arrived. Of course, you remember our little darling. And this is her friend, James.”

He finds himself looking at Barbara. There’s a shit-eating grin on her face. It seems the party has finally started for her.

“Where should we put these?” you ask, lifting up your gift bag.

“Oh, you sweeties,” aunt Millie preens. She guides the two of you into the adjoining kitchen. There’s a enormous stack of presents atop of the kitchen island. “You can add it to there. Thank you so much, that’s so kind.”

With that, she’s returning to her party. Bucky stands by your side and places his gift bag beside yours. “What’d you bring?” he murmurs.

“Vodka,” you deadpan. He snorts. “I’m kidding,” you say, flashing him a grin. A real one, this time. “I found these cute baby blankets at this little store in Manhattan. Couldn’t resist. It was purely to benefit capitalism.”

He chuckles.

“What about you?”

“Some pacifiers. Figured you can never have enough, and I didn’t wanna spend more than twenty bucks.”

“Very smart of you,” you agree with a nod. You sigh and look up at him. Smiling, your voice is heavy with sincerity as you tell him, “thank you, for coming to this. I don’t think I could do this on my own.”

“Course,” Bucky quietly replies. He smiles down at you. You’re beautiful, standing in a summer dress that ends just before the knee, painted in peonies and snapdragons. “You need me, I’m there.”

Something in his words seems to hit you. Your eyes widen by a slight. If Bucky wasn’t trained to be so perceptive, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. But he does. Your lips part as if to say something, but instead of your sweet voice coming out, instead it’s:

“Well, well, well.”

Your eyes press shut. Bucky somehow holds back his laugh. The two of you turn to lay eyes on Lucy, saddled up beside Barbara. He’s not sure he’s seen either of them so happy. No, not happy. Gloating.

“Nice of you to join us for this little shin-dig, James,” Barbara cordially greets.

“Yes, so nice of you,” Lucy parrots.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you both too.”

“I should have placed money. If I was a betting man–”

“--What do you mean ‘if’? You lose about a twenty a week on those damn roulette tables on the internet.”

“Secret roulette tables,” Lucy hisses.

“Glad to see the two of you enjoying yourselves,” you say, leaning against the kitchen island. “We miss anything so far?”

“Just a riveting round of ‘pin the baby bundle on the stork’,” Barbara says, sounding far from entertained.

“Barbs here placed it way off to the left on the wallpaper. I think it was on purpose,” Lucy says.

“What do you mean ‘think’, you twit, of course it was on purpose. This whole party is a whole load of–”

“--There you all are!”

It must look rather frightening, the fakeness of the smiles Aunt Millie is met with from the four reluctant guests.

“We were just about to start a round of ‘twenty-one-questions’. Care to join?”

“How could we say no?” Lucy sardonically replies. Aunt Millie claps her hands together and returns to the living room. Lucy rolls her eyes; Barbara takes a swig of her glass of red wine.

“What a dithering idiot,” Lucy mutters, following after the host. Barbara nods in agreement as she shadows. You shake your head and laugh quietly.

“This is going fantastic.”

Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You squeeze his metal palm and let him guide you back into the belly of the beast. There’s a loveseat empty which the two of you can only just fit on: your thigh presses up against Bucky’s. Without option, you’re each handed a paper cup of mocktail. Bucky has blue, you have pink.

“Mm. What’s your taste like?” you quietly ask him. The attention is largely on aunt Millie who is explaining the very complex game of twenty-one-questions (‘so, essentially, everybody asks questions…’).

“Sugar. Yours?”

You giggle underbreath. Pushing the cup near to him, you whisper, “here. Try it.”

He takes it from you and has a sip. Strawberry fizz hits his tongue like a sherbet. He bobs his head and nods. “Mm. I prefer mine.”

“Lemme try it. I might like it more.”

“No, I want it,” he childishly argues back.

“Come on!” you giggle, reaching for his cup. He holds it up and out of reach, grinning down at you. “Bucky–”

“You two okay?”

His head snaps up to meet Aunt Millie’s curious expression. He lowers the cup, face flushing with embarrassment at the attention from the other party attendees, and nods. Clearing his throat, he replies, “yep. All good here.”

Twenty-one-questions goes by without a hitch. In fact, Bucky thinks you begin to enjoy yourself somewhat. The event is rather nice if you block out the fact that your mother’s sister is pregnant with your dad’s baby, your soon-to-be half-sibling/niece/nephew. The first round is a pig, the second a newspaper.

“Alright, who should go next?” Aunt Millie wonders.

“I think our darl should. She always comes up with clever ones,” Barbara says, pointing over to you. Bucky quirks a brow, looking down at you. You sigh and roll your eyes, but you don’t say no.

“Got one?”

“Yep,” you smile, nodding. Bucky takes a sip of his neon blue concoction - it’s starting to grow on him. The questions start to come in and clues are uncovered: it’s a person; a relatively young person; a black person; a black man; a black man who flies; no, not the first black pilot; he isn’t a pilot, he just flies; a black man who–

“Is it Sam?” Bucky suddenly asks.

You grin, looking up at him. “Sam who?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky catches on quickly. “Is it Captain America?”

“Hey! James got it!” you cheer. The room cheers too, clapping jovially, whilst you gloat in your little gag. Bucky shakes his head at you; he’s smiling, hard. You let out a little laugh. He’s glad you're enjoying yourself. Relieved, even. The game comes to a close after that and stories are passed. The two of you end up wrapped in a conversation with one of your aunt’s friends from college. She’s nice enough, likely oblivious to the Freudian case study which was her friend’s pregnancy. As she’s telling you and Bucky about a trip she went on to Paris the other month, there’s a knock at the front door. Bucky vaguely tracks Aunt Millie getting up to go answer it. It was a reflex, to stay alert at all times. His hearing catches onto what sounds like a man’s voice. His brows tug together slightly, lips losing some of his smile. He sees it before it’s announced. His stomach twists. His back goes stiff. His palm sweats. He doesn’t have to know what Darren looks like to recognise him. An asshole like that is distinguishable from a mile away, by a blind man.

“Look who made it!” Aunt Millie announces with dumb excitement. Everyone in the room turns. Bucky wishes there’s some way to warn you of what you’re about to see, but there isn’t. Everything is somehow happening in slow motion with no time to intervene. He knows the second you lay eyes on him.

You go statue still.

“Sorry I’m late,” Darren grins. He’s charming. Smarmy. Makes your skin prickle with disgust, a gut feeling that he wasn’t all he pretended to be. “Told the boys at work the occasion and they let me get off early.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” aunt Millie gushes. She ushers her friends to make space for him. Bucky’s gaze hardens to steel when he watches Darren’s eyes fall onto you.

“Darling.”

You don’t speak. Don’t move. Bucky’s eyes flit down to you but he can’t see your face, just the back of your head.

Darren’s guided to take perch on the sofa, a space cleared for him as if he’s royalty, and as he falls into conversation with aunt Millie’s friends, their attention all zoned in on him, you abruptly get up from the sofa and walk to the door. Bucky’s eyes dart over to Barbara and Lucy’s. They’re watching with an eagle gaze just like he is. Barbara looks apologetic, disappointed, worried. Lucy just looks pissed. Bucky gets up and gives them a brief nod; he ditches his cup on the coffee table as he heads for the door. You’re stood outside, lent against the brick wall. Your head is lulled back, eyes closed, lips pulled into a thin line. Bucky lets the door quietly click shut behind him. He doesn’t speak. Just stands, hands in his pockets, and watches you, quietly concerned.

“He came,” you mumble.

Bucky nods despite the fact you can’t see him.

You lift a hand up to the bridge of your nose and pinch it, rubbing. “The fucking asshole came. He’s shameless. It actually makes me sick.” Sighing, you open your eyes and glance over to Bucky. Tears gather in the waterline. His mind splits. A part of him wants to go back in there and beat the son of a bitch until he can’t walk, and a part of him wants to stay and hold you and tell you everything will be okay. He knows which one to lean into the second a tear slips down your cheek.

“Come here,” he murmurs. You don’t need any further prompting. You practically fall against him, a hand coming up to fist at his shirt, and Bucky wraps his arms around you, holding you close. Your body shivers with your quiet tears. He places a kiss to the crown of your head, pressing his cheek against your hair, and he holds you. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I fucking hate him,” you cry into his shirt. “I hate his guts.”

“That anyway to speak about your old man?”

Bucky’s shoulders seize. He slowly turns his head to find Darren standing there in the doorway, flesh and blood - a waste of both. He’s happy to let his contempt be palpable. It’s easy to sink back into his old ways: brooding, silent, deadly. Darren doesn’t seem to be all the way stupid. He shifts slightly under Bucky’s gaze. He eyes him warily and doesn’t take a step out of the house towards you.

“Come on, darling. I just want to talk,” Darren says, softer.

You slowly ease away from Bucky’s frame. Sniffing, you wipe your cheek. One of your hands stays on Bucky’s side, as if you need to keep him close.

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” you say, voice still quivering.

“Look, I understand this is a bit of a surprise–”

“A surprise? Which part exactly?” you spit. You’re angry, suddenly so. Pulling away from Bucky, you furiously wipe your face dry as you take a step towards your father. “You being here and ambushing me, or you knocking up mom’s sister?”

“It’s hardly an ambush, darling. This is a baby shower for my child.”

You laugh. It’s haunting to Bucky, void of humour. “Do you even hear yourself!? Can you not fathom how insane that is!? You need fucking help!”

“Don’t be cruel, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl, pointing at him. “You don’t get to call me that. You ruined my life.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think–”

“God, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Darren swallows. He looks uncomfortable. Bucky stares him down. “Can we talk somewhere alone, maybe?”

“No. I don’t want to be alone with you,” you state. Darren sighs. His hands slip into his pockets. You press your lips together and take a deep breath. In the lull, he takes a step outside and closes the door behind him. Bucky imagines it’s to save face from the others. God forbid people know the truth about this piece of scum. As if incapable of reading the room, Darren’s eyes drift up over your head to Bucky.

“I see you’ve met someone,” he says. Bucky almost wants to laugh at the man’s idiocy when he extends out a hand for Bucky to shake. “I’m Darren.”

“I know who you are,” is all Bucky says. He doesn’t shake his hand. Darren eventually returns it to his pocket. The attention returns to you. You’re shaking your head, hands on your hips, staring at the wall just to the side of Darren’s head.

“I see things are going just as good for you as always, then.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. Your eyes slowly drift over to your dad. He feels the need to expand.

“First you throw away your medical degree and now this. Dating a former criminal. A known murderer. You’re just throwing it all away now, huh?”

Bucky’s blood goes cold. You shake your head. Slowly at first, then fast. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to live my life when you’ve made such a shitshow of yours.”

“You don’t talk to me like that. I’m your father.”

“And what exactly qualifies you of that title?” you ask, cocking your head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you had a good future lined up before you threw it all down the shitter,” Darren boldly states.

“I like my life,” you tell him. “I like the choices I’ve made in my life. I’m happy.”

“With him?”

“Yes. With him,” you affirm. Bucky wasn’t aware of how badly he needed to feel your touch until your hand reached behind you for his. The tension eased from him like water rolling off leaves. “I hated my life before. I hated college. I hated medical school. I hated you.”

“You could have been a doctor,” your dad says, shaking his head. There’s something akin to disgust in the way he appraises you. “You could have been a psychiatrist.”

“And whose fault is it that I’m not?”

He doesn’t answer. It seems he knows it, though. His brows twitch, his fingers too. Bucky doesn’t like him for a myriad of reasons, but partly because he can’t predict him. One moment he’s the apologetic father and the next he’s the disappointed dad.

“You’re not who I thought you’d be, darling,” Darren remarks, shaking his head. He tuts. “What a waste.”

Anger blinds him. Bucky takes a step forward. Your hand clenching his is the only thing which makes him stop.

“I could say the same thing to you, dad,” you say. Your voice is steady, frighteningly so, when you speak. “You were all I looked up to, and now I can’t even look at you.”

Darren stands there, stupefied. His lips part like a fish out of water, searching for words. Rage colours his face, distorts his hideous features. But you don’t bother to wait for his comeback. It would only be a waste of oxygen.

“Goodbye, dad.”

You turn heel and walk to the car. Bucky lets his hand slip away from yours. He doesn’t stop you and you don’t wait. Darren bristles as Bucky stalks towards him. He doesn’t stop until the shorter man’s back is pressed against the door. He dips his face, invading his personal space, and glares daggers into his wide eyes.

“You do anything as much as text her, and I’ll find you. Got it?”

Darren swallows. Bucky’s metal arm whirs, his patient dwindling, and he grabs firmly at Darren’s upper arm. He squeezes. Hard enough to leave a mark. His smirk is impossible to hold back at the quiet whimper he’s met with.

“Got it?” he grits out.

Finally, Darren nods. Bucky lets go in an instant. He brushes his hands down Darren’s arms, smoothing his shirt, and takes a step back. His smile is overly polite. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re sitting in the passenger seat when Bucky reaches the car. He glances over to the house as he turns on the engine. Darren’s gone back inside, it seems. Barbara is at the kitchen window, watching. Bucky gives her another nod and she gives one back. He taps on the screen of the car until the satnav chimes to life, logged for your address.

“Ready to leave?” he checks, glancing over to you. You’re slumped in your seat, staring out the passenger side window. Your reply is a silent nod. Bucky pulls out of the driveway and starts off down the road.

You don’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Not a single word. You’re not crying, though, which Bucky takes to be a good thing. Bucky decides not to open the conversation. He knows more than anyone the value of space. You needed time to think and to process. Bucky never got to see his father again after he walked out, but he can only imagine that if their paths ever somehow crossed - then or even now - he would need time to work it all through.

But he’s human, still. His worry nibbles away at him until he can’t help but reach a hand across the console, just as he had done on the ride there, placing his hand on your knee. It lingers there for a minute. He considers taking it back. But then, your hand is laying atop of his. He glances over to you and you meet his gaze. The smile you flash him is real. Genuine. You might not be good, but you’re okay. That’s all Bucky needs right now.

The radio hums quietly in the background. Bucky hadn’t bothered to queue anything up; he isn’t sure which playlist is on. A piano melody opens a song. A man begins to sing. You shuffle in your seat.

“I like this song,” you mumble. Bucky glances at you. You turn to sit facing inwards, towards him. He reaches over to the dial and turns the volume up. A few moments later, you’re quietly singing along.

Bucky smiles to himself. The song swells into rhythmic blues with haunting synth tunes. As it ties together, fading off into the next tune, you sigh.

“I’m okay now,” you say softly. Bucky doesn’t say anything. You nod. Smile. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He offers out his hand to you and you take it. And for the first time since Bucky’s met you, he thinks he might be the one to remove a weight from your shoulders.

Something shifts in the relationship after that. There’s a gravity to it which wasn’t there before, and a new meaning defined. It was more than pleasant dates and lingering kisses and longing stares. Bucky had seen the side of you which you kept under layers of armour which time had built. The endless patience he’d been privy to snapped. He’d held you whilst you cried and helped to dry the tears. In a strange way, it felt like a milestone had been met. One which underlined how serious Bucky was about you, and you about him. But it remained unnamed and unlabelled - the relationship the two of you shared. Bucky was still finding his footing with romance. The steps were coming back to him but he needed some time to remember the routines. Was asking someone to be your girlfriend even a thing anymore? It felt juvenile, outdated, and yet necessary. In a caveman-like way, Bucky wanted people to know you were with him. He belonged to you.

“Watched any good movies this week?” you ask Bucky as you walk down the streets of Brooklyn one evening. In your right hand is a carrier bag filled with miscellaneous items you’d picked up on an errand run. It had felt domestic joining you in the shop as you picked out shampoo and mouthwash and painkillers. Your left hand is encased in his, warmed by his leather glove.

“Fight Club,” he replies. Despite the little book Steve gave him being gone, Bucky had continued his catching-up on the things he missed. That included movies. You’d ask him occasionally about what his latest ‘education’ was.

“Ah. Man-classic. What did you think?”

Bucky shrugged. A couple across the street laughed. “It was alright. The ending was pretty strange.”

“The whole movie is,” you snort. “I don’t like how it’s filmed. It makes me feel dizzy.”

“Definitely not my favourite,” Bucky agrees.

“Brad Pitt is sexy though, so it gets points for that,” you comment. Bucky glances down at you, amused.

“Can’t say I noticed.”

You roll your eyes, grinning up at him. “Yeah right. Nobody is immune to Brad Pitt.” Neither agreeing or disagreeing, you continue to fill the city-scape buzz. “What’s next on your watch-list?”

“Not sure,” Bucky hums. He reels aloud different titles from the mental list he'd been making, from people's recommendations of 'you have to see so-and-so movie - it's a classic!' You let out varying intonations of hums in response to each. Then, you gasp.

“You know what we should watch?” Bucky quirks a brow in question. “Dirty Dancing. Now that is a classic.”

“Dirty Dancing? The hell’s that?” Bucky frowns, bemused.

You gape at him like he’d just insulted your religion. “It’s the best romance movie ever made.”

“Quite the claim.”

“Because it’s true,” you insist. Your pace picks up slightly and Bucky laughs to himself. “We’re watching it tonight. You can’t fight me on this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He’s more than happy to let you drag him to your apartment building, driven with newfound purpose. Your apartment is something of a second home to him now. He kicks off his shoes when he walks in; lounges on his claimed spot and turns on the television whilst you potter about in the kitchen. The fairy lights and lamp flicker to life. You wander over with two glasses of wine and a bowl of popcorn. Bucky pops a piece in his mouth whilst scrolling through the various streaming platforms. You sit sideways on, stretching your feet out and onto his lap. He loves it. It’s so easy, so natural, so right. Eventually, Bucky finds Dirty Dancing. As the opening credits roll onto the screen, Bucky’s metal hand busies itself with rubbing soothing, deep circles into the sole of your foot. Little tricks he’d learnt from your time together. The movie stretches on. Sixties music with blues drum beats; sepia tainted footage. His attention is only half on the story. It keeps drifting to you. You’re enthralled, smiling to yourself faintly. Your head bobs along to the music sometimes. Your lips move silently with some of the dialogue; you’ve seemingly seen it enough times to rehearse it.

“Patrik Swayze is so attractive,” you randomly announce. Bucky chuckles. He squeezes your foot playfully and you squirm. “Don’t worry, you’re hot too.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs with a lazy grin.

“I think there’s nothing sexier than a guy who dances,” you muse. “What’d you think so far?”

“I like it,” he tells you. You meet his eyes, a brow quirked as if to ask ‘really’. “I do. It’s fun. Romantic.”

“So romantic,” you swoon like a teenager. Bucky grins, shakes his head, and looks back to the movie. “Do you dance?”

“I used to,” Bucky says. He smiles at the faint memories of hours spent in dance halls. The smell of smoke gripping to the wallpaper; the taste of whiskey on his tongue. A girl on his arm, Steve begrudgingly tagging along. “Used to be pretty good at it. I could waltz fairly good. My ma taught me how.”

“I’m jealous,” you murmur. “People don’t dance these days. Not like back then.”

Something in your tone has Bucky pushing your feet off his lap. His body isn’t his own when he rises to his feet. You look up at him, mildly amused, and he extends a hand out to you.

“Come on then.”

You quirk a brow. “Really?”

He nods. You hesitate for a moment before slipping your hand into his. He helps tug you up and onto your feet. You giggle, nervous, and let him maneuver you like a puppet. His heart thrums nervously in his chest. He hasn’t danced in years; not properly. No more than the toe tap in the kitchen as the radio plays. But something about you has him taking the chance.

“Like this,” he murmurs. His voice fades into the music and dialogue of the movie.

Your left hand is guided onto his shoulder, and your right is captured in his metal hand. His right lands on your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh gently like sinking into snow. He nods and takes a step forward, and you take one backwards.

“That’s it, you got it,” he quietly praises. Your shoulders ease slightly. You accidentally step onto his sock clad toe.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“You’re good,” Bucky chuckles. After a few more stumbles and squished toes, you start to pick up on it. Bucky leads; his hand stays safe on your side, his other occasionally squeezing your palm. You're staring down at the floor, watching your feet like you might grow an extra toe, brows tugged together within concentration. Bucky lifts his finger under your chin and eases your face up, until your eyes meet his. A timid smile has his heart hiccuping. Bucky dips his face, pulling your body closer to him by the waist, and rests his chin by the crux of your shoulder. Your fingers press into the bridge of where metal meets flesh. He takes a deep breath in: you smell of your perfume and moisturiser. He tilts his head just enough to let his lips ghost a kiss to your neck. A quiet gasp escapes you. Bucky holds you closer still. His hips roll instinctively to the rhythm. His eyes slip shut. A weight rolls off his shoulder. Your own body begins to sway, the musicality contagious, and Bucky kisses you again on the throat, his lips lingering against the thin veil of skin. Your hand slinks away from his shoulder and up, into his hair. Your head turns and his eyes find yours, half-hooded, smiles gone. Something sweeps over the two of you, captures you in a bubble, and Bucky dances with you without shame. His hand grips at your hips and guides them to the beat, against him. Your eyes don’t shy away from his. Your lips remain parted, breath a little short; there’s the faintest tinge of wine that fills the ever decreasing gap between the two of you. And he can’t take it any longer. Bucky kisses you. He pours everything into it. Every memory, every thought, every compliment. You hold him close. Let him live in the dream of being a normal guy with a pretty girl. His lips slowly break apart but he remains close. Revels in the feel of your warm breath fanning his mouth. He swallows. Digs inside of him for guts to say the three words that have been there maybe since the start.

A loud clatter on the television has you jumping.

The bubble pops.

The two of you look to the TV. There’s a fight, a scuff of some kind between Johnny and another guy. Bucky swallows, his confidence flickering like a dying candle. You slip out of his hold with a nervous smile. Flustered like it was your first kiss. Combing some hair behind your ears, you smile at him.

“I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”

Bucky nods. As you head out the room, he sighs. His fingers still tingle from your touch. His heart is racing. His mind feels foggy, like he’s been possessed by a former version of himself. When you return, he’s back on the sofa, drinking his wine, watching the movie. You wordless return to your spot beside him. Your head leans against his shoulder. You bring the bowl of popcorn up and take a handful. Bucky takes a piece too.

“Y’know, you kinda remind me of her,” Bucky says, tipping his glass towards the screen.

“Baby?”

“Mhm. Determined. Kind. Giggly, with an edge. Sexy.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“Hey, if you’re having Patrik then it’s only fair that I have her.”

You giggle. Crunching on a piece of popcorn, you shrug. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that logic.”

The popcorn goes down piece by piece, the bowl empty by the time the end credits roll. Bucky sees the appeal. It’s charming, living in its time like Bucky wishes he could. Yawning, you reach over for the remote and turn the volume down. That’s when the two of you catch it. It’s raining.

“Sounds pretty heavy,” you comment. Bucky hums. Getting to your feet, you gather the empty glasses and bowl and head into the kitchen. He clicks off the TV and follows. Your back is to him as you stand at the sink, rinsing the pots. Bucky doesn’t wait for you to ask, grabbing a tea towel and taking the spot beside you to dry the pots you wash. Domestic. Safe and secure. “Y’know, you could just stay over.”

Something zips through Bucky at the thought. “Yeah?”

“I mean…I am, so…”

He chuckles at that, catching your cheeky grin in the corner of his eye. He swallows, turns over the offer in his mind like assessing an artifact. “You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

You shut off the sink. Looking up at him, you smile. There’s something on your face that isn’t familiar to Bucky. Your eyes flicker up and down over him; it’s quick but noticeable. “Certain of it.”

Considering Bucky has never stayed over before, the two of you step into a routine as if you’ve done it dozens of times before. Your shoulder brushes his upper arm as you stand side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth. In the reflection, your eyes catch. You smile at him. He smiles back. He stays behind to use the toilet as you head into your bedroom. In the quiet seclusion of the bathroom, he washes his hands and studies himself in the mirror. The memory of you moments ago, close to his body, close enough that he could feel every little twitch that every breath brought, was replaying in his mind, over and over. The way your breath caught, the tiny gasp that came when he kissed your neck. The smell of you was consuming him, driving him crazy. He closed his eyes and gripped the sink. Get it together, Barnes. Jesus. He was acting like a goddamn teenager, going through puberty all over again. But with the eroticism came anxiety. It seeped into his shoulders, tightened the muscles like pulling on strings. It had been years - years - since he laid with a woman. He imagined it to be the same as dancing; muscle memory. But he worried himself sick. What if he wasn’t as good as he used to be? What if it’s a big disappointment for you? He wants to make you feel good…That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Bucky splashes some cold water on his face. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He trusts you. That’s all that matters. He knows you, too. Knows you won’t laugh in his face. That you’ll be patient, understanding. It was in your nature, as embedded in your body like your tendons and bones. Get it together. He heads out the bathroom and into the bedroom.

You’re sitting on the bed atop of the covers, scrolling on your phone, in your pajamas: an oversized shirt from your former college, sporting the emblem on the front, and a pair of sleep shorts. The only light comes from your left, a yellow-ish glow from the bedside lamp. He’s not sure where the idea comes from, but the second it's in his mind, it’s out his mouth.

“Y’know what I was thinking about?”

“How sexy Patrick Swayze is?” you wonder, not looking up from your screen. Bucky rolls his eyes in good nature.

“I wanna give you a massage.”

That has your attention. You look up and over to him, clicking off your phone. “A massage?”

“Yeah. I wanna see what it’s like. Pay you back. Tit for tat,” Bucky shrugs, slipping his hands into his pant pockets. You chuckle; your phone joins the bedside table.

“You don’t gotta ‘pay me back’. It’s a service, Bucky. That’s how economy works. Business,” you tease. He rolls his eyes and sits down on the bed. You’re still deliberating his offer. Eventually, you shrug. “I mean, I’m game.”

His brows raise slightly. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” you say. You get to your feet and head for the door, saying as you go, “there’s some spare oils and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll go get them.”

In the brief time you’re gone - the extractor fan light telling of your whereabouts - Bucky meddles with the bedsheets. He arranges it so there’s a pillow laid out for your head, pushing the duvet off the foot of the bed. He’s still standing by the foot of the bed when you come back in, a bottle of massage oil in each hand.

“Your choice,” you say, lifting each, “lavender or cedarwood.”

“Lavender,” he nods. You hand it over. He turns it over in his metal hand, vaguely reading the label. You click the door behind you and press your back against it, waiting. Bucky clears his throat, finding his smile. He gestures to the bed. “Your massage bed, ma’am.”

“Why thank you,” comes your accented reply. He chuckles. You climb onto the bed, sitting on your knees, and something about it sends a chill down Bucky’s spine. You quirk a brow, expectant.

“Could you, uh, take off your top. So I can get to your shoulders, s’all.”

Your lips quirk. “If you wanted me naked,” you lowly say, fingers catching the hem of your shirt. Bucky’s lungs go empty as you pull it up and over your head. It’s tossed to the floor. He lets out a shaky breath through the nose. “All you had to do is ask.”

His eyes slip shamelessly down from your eyes to your chest. You sit there, shirtless, waiting. He swallows. He gestures to the bed. “Lie down, on your stomach.”

Your compliance shouldn’t be as erotic as it is. You sink down into the mattress, face turned to the right, facing the wall. Your eyes slip shut with a breath. Bucky’s eyes trail down your bare back; he admires every muscle, every dip, every freckle and scar, every stretch mark. You’re beautiful; something pulled from his fantasies and crafted into life. He sinks onto the bed on his knees. He hooks a leg over your body, holding himself over your frame in a straddle. Opening the bottle of oil, he tips what seems a sufficient amount into his right hand. The bottle clinks on the bedside table. He rubs his hands together and inhales slowly, calming himself, his heart racing, mind veering off into sensual reveries.

“I’m going to touch you,” he murmurs. You don’t speak. His hands sink down onto your skin. Your body is firm beneath his touch, but there’s the squish and give of skin that gives when he pushes gently into the muscle. You let out a deep sigh. He smirks. “That’s it…”

Bucky’s mesmerised with how your body feels beneath his touch. He mimics what you do to him; presses into the crux of your shoulders, follows the flow of muscles down your lats and arms. He runs his palms by the heels of his hands up your back. The way you're breathing is driving him crazy. He’s never practised such restraint; growing harder and harder with every second his fingers are on your body. Then, he’s leaning down, down, down, until his lips meet your upper back. He kisses you. You sigh heavily. Another, and another, tracking down your spine. His fingers dip into the waistband of your sleep shorts. Before he can ask, you’re lifting your hips enough to help him slide them down: a silent mark of consent. He guides them down your legs, tosses them onto the floor. You’re not wearing panties. Bucky thinks a part of him dies and gladly goes to heaven.

He runs a palm up your leg, starting at the shin, following the inner track of your thigh. He coaxes them apart and you give like parting water. Bucky’s eyes flick up to your face. Your eyes remain closed; your breathing, hard. He realises he is too. Your glistening core has him letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands plant on your hips and he guides your body so you’re propped up onto your knees. You shift, leaning on your forearms. His finger reaches out and brushes through your folds, gathering some of the slick on his fingers. You gasp out at the tiny sensation.

“Bucky,” you mumble. He groans. His grip is just shy of mean when he grabs your ass, guiding you open; he leans down and he can fucking smell you. It’s dizzying, intoxicating. It’s going to kill him.

And what a way to die.

His nose nuzzles against you first before his tongue licks a long, deep lap right to your clit. You’re gasping out, fingers fisting into the sheets. He’s a man starved. He can’t get enough. Your taste is addictive. It’s more than heroin, more than crack. It’s everything. His tongue dips at your weeping cunt, sucks at your swollen clit. He moans against you, eating you out like it’s his God given right. His fingers grab at the flesh of your cheeks, sure to leave bruises. You rut against his face, moaning stupid into the sheets. He keeps going until you’re begging. “Please, baby, please…God, fuck Bucky, don’t stop…M’gonna come, oh God…”

He keeps going until you’re clenching around nothing, shaking as you tip over the edge. He keeps going until you’re trying to crawl out of his hold, the overstimulation teetering on too much. He sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, licks his lips, savours the taste that he already wants more of. You’re on him in a second. Practically crawling into his lap, hooking your legs over and around his waist so you’re straddling him. Hands around his neck, in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, pulling at his brown locks. You can surely taste yourself as you kiss him. It’s messy, filthy, nothing but tongue and teeth and broken pleas and moans. His hands can’t stay still. They roam over your body; rub at your thighs, caress your tits. You grab at his t-shirt and tug until he’s breaking apart, pulling it over his head. His dog tags rest against burning hot skin.

Leaning back into his hold, your hands glide down his chest. You take your time with it, following along with your eyes, mouth agape.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” you sigh. Then you’re leaning in, pressing kisses to the junction of his prosthetic, and his eyes roll back into his head. They linger more and more as you journey to his ear, catching his lobe between your teeth. He’s amazed he doesn’t come as you whine into his ear, “need you to fuck me.”

With a grunt, his hands grab your hips and he tosses you onto your back. He’s caging you in, kissing you senseless until neither of you can remember your names. Your hands push at his pants and there’s a small struggle as Bucky kicks off his pants and boxers. But when your fingers wrap around his throbbing length, Bucky lets out a choked gasp, head dropping onto your collarbone.

“Don’t tease,” he quietly begs. He kisses at your nipple. “I won’t last.”

“How long?” you whisper. You work him gently, slowly, careful of the pressure.

“Too long,” he chuckles. He’s too turned on to be embarrassed by the admission.

You kiss his forehead reassuringly. He lifts his head, eyes finding yours. “Me too,” you confide.

Bucky ruts into your hand, hips rolling instinctively. Your thumb traces over the tip; his eyes slip shut with a moan of your name.

“That’s it,” you murmur. Bucky wants to cry as you start speaking to him in that voice. The voice that hooked him in. The voice that could make him do anything. “Feels good, baby?”

“Fuck,” he grits out. He’s painfully hard. “No, no, m’close…”

“You wanna fuck me?” you innocently ask with a coo. Bucky moans, rutting desperately into your fist. “You gonna fuck me, James?”

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he practically whines against your clammy skin.

Your hand finally eases away and he lets out a breath, both of relief and disappointment. Then you’re wriggling up the bed, sitting up enough to reach over into the drawer of the bedside table. Bucky keeps himself busy with face fucking your tits. Your back arches at the hickeys he decorates the plump skin with. His dog tags dangle, ghosting your skin. Cupping his jaw, your fingers stroke lovingly at his cheek to guide his face away, back up to yours. The kiss you catch him in is different: slower, sweet, tender. His fingers seek out your free hand, stealing the condom from your hold. But then you’re breaking apart with a shaking head, breath fanning hot against his swollen lips.

“I’m not ready yet,” you whisper. Bucky swallows. “It’ll hurt.”

“What’d you need?” Bucky murmurs through kisses. He leaves them anywhere. Your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. “Whatever you want, baby…”

“Need to be fingered,” you hum. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut at the thought. His right hand runs up and along your leg, but before he can reach your cunt, you’re grabbing at his wrist. Face contorted with confusion, he glances up at you. You look fucking gone. You’re shaking your head, a small smile on your lips. “The oils aren’t for intimate use.”

He shakes his head, not following.

“You can’t use them internally,” you explain, easing his hand away from you. He goes to push off you to wash his hands but you hold him close, stopping him. His brows are furrowed slightly, muddled, as he watches your hand slip away from his. Your finger slides through the soaking folds of your pussy. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. Your head tilts back, eyes slipping shut as you sigh, pushing a finger inside of you.

You start to fuck yourself with your fingers.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky moans. He can’t seem to look away. He kisses your neck and jaw, insatiable, eyes trained on your digits that sink in and out of your soaking hole. How he hasn’t come yet is beyond him. You let out a desperate moan when you scissor yourself open. His metal thumb reaches down and he plays with your neglected clit. The squeal you let out is adorably erotic. Bucky chuckles against your burning hot skin. You’re like a fever he can’t sweat out. He kisses at your ear; nibbles at the edge of it. “So fucking sexy, fucking your hand.”

You cry out, groaning. The lewd squelch of your fingers runs like cold water down Bucky’s spine.

“Bucky,” you whimper. “M’so close.”

“That’s it,” he croons. His fingers pinch your pebbled nipple. You’re rocking on your hand, three fingers buried inside of you. He shakes his head, smirking. “Doing so good for me, doll. You can come, baby. Let go…”

You shiver when you come. Your fingers slip out of you as you climax, incoherent blubbers falling from your kiss-swollen lips, a blasphemy of his name with the lords. Bucky rests his head against the crux of your shoulder, leaving love bites on your neck, his hand rubbing your waist reassuringly as you slowly start to come down. The sound of sucking has him opening his eyes. Your fingers are deep inside your mouth, cleaning them of your juices. He can’t help but laugh.

“You can’t be fucking real,” he mutters. Your eyes open and he kisses you, chasing the taste of you on your tongue.

And then finally, finally, he’s easing his way inside of you.

You’re laid back on the bed; head rolled back, eyes pressed shut, mouth agape. Bucky props himself up above you, his metal hand guiding him into your sopping cunt. Despite the foreplay, you squeeze him as he enters. His moans are muffled into the skin of your shoulder. Your fingers thread through his hair, soothing him as he pushes inside, deeper and deeper, until you’re all he can feel.

Somewhere in the haze, the two of you lock eyes. You smile at him. It tells him thousands of things. The trust you hold in him is astronomical in that moment, Bucky realises, and the same goes for him. He kisses you tenderly. Then he gently rocks his hips back, easing out, before driving back in. Your moan is half broken with a gasp. He groans against your body. Then, the tether snaps, and he loses all restraint. He fucks you into the bed until you can’t speak. He fucks you until your legs are locking around his body like a vice. He fucks you until you’re begging him for something, anything - until all that matters if hearing his name falling from your mouth over, and over, and over.

“Fuck, James,” you cry, pulling him impossibly closer. He knows you're close. He is too. He has been for the past hour. “Please, baby. Please…”

“I know, doll, I know,” he grunts. The kisses are sloppy; broken but not wasteful. He moans as you clench around him. “Fuck, feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your voice cracks when you come for the third time that night. And it’s with that dying cry of his name that Bucky lets himself fall over the edge, tumbling into white-blind ecstasy. He’d forgotten, somehow, in all the years of torture and running and rebuilding: he’d forgotten how good it felt.

Now that he’d remembered, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could ever go without it again.

You’re still shaking after Bucky’s throws out the condom. He grabs the duvet and tugs it back up and onto the bed. It’s eased just up to your hip; your body is still hot as fire. Beads of sweat run down Bucky’s face. He lays on his back, eyes transfixed on the ceiling until he can’t hold them open any more. His chest is heaving as he slowly but surely begins to catch his breath. You sleepily shuffle closer, snuggling up against his clammy chest, panting still. He wraps his arm around you and presses a kiss to the crown of your forehead.

“James?” you quietly broach. Your voice is a little breathless, those less so than before. He can still hear you crying out his name; nothing has ever sounded as sweet as you coming.

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something?” He swallows and nods. His finger swipes over your back, stroking at the skin, still slick with oil. “I love you.”

The words sit in the sex-soaked room. They seep into his mind like vapour, clouding every thought. Every nightmare and every horror is cloaked. Every self deprecating insult that he’s berated himself with becomes hidden. And through the mist, is you. It was always you. He knew it from the moment he met you. The reason why he had put up with all the shit that was thrown his way. The reason why he was still here, still trying, still fighting for something. It was because he needed to find you.

It might be the easiest thing he’s ever said, when Bucky tells you, “I love you too.”

~*~*~*

want more? read part two here!

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