A Weapon's Wants (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
wordcount: 10.6k notes: Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes (with memory issues), concussions, woundcare, power dynamics / power imbalance (Bucky sees you as his handler, you try to avoid this dynamic), somnophilia, mildly dubious consent = you're into it when you realise what's going on, bucky goes by a nickname in this because of his memory issues.
A complete stranger crashes head-first onto your balcony. With his head scrambled and murky origins, he has absolutely nowhere else to go. Against your better judgment, you decide to take him in. Or: Winter Soldier!Bucky confuses you for his handler following a concussion.
There's a loud crash on your balcony.
One moment, you're sitting on the couch, eyelids drooping downwards as you're nodding off, the biggest concern on your mind being your pride. (You should at least make it to 9 PM before passing out.) The next, there's a bang. And you're on your feet, heart hammering against your chest. It's unsteady, skips a beat, flutters around like a caged butterfly. You exhale loudly through your mouth. For a moment, you just stand there. Refusing to move. On the forefront of your mind is a childlike that always used to keep the monsters at bay. If I don't look at it, it's not really there.
You're too old for that now. Maybe, just maybe, you're making a huge fuss about a confused bird crashing straight into the glass. You glance. The only thing you move is your head and, as you do it, your heart speeds up again. Your courage isn't rewarded. The clash between the light of your apartment and the dark of a winter evening means that whatever is there, if there even is anything there, is cloaked in shadow.
Your steps are tentative. Socked feet tip-toe towards the window, as if being heard matters when your figure must cut so clearly through the dark outside. You hold your breath as you look. A large heap lies crumpled on the tiny balcony. You still can't quite make out what it is, but one thing's far certain: it's far too large to be an animal. And it isn't moving.
It's a person, your brain yells at you, even when you're not exactly certain. It'd be impossible, for one. Your apartment floor is way too high off the ground, the fire exit on the other side of the building. With the thought echoing in your head, though, your mind fills in the gaps. That's an arm, two legs splayed to the side, a dark mop of hair—
Before your head and body fully realign, you throw the sliding door open. You're instantly blasted with a wave of cold that sends your teeth chattering. No one would survive long just crashed on the ground. Awful as it is, your first move is to poke the body with one of your toes. No response. You can't just… Keep them out there.
Leaning down, you take hold of them by both of his legs and brace yourself as you start to pull. The first part of their body that's pulled into the light is a pair of metal-tipped, black boots, caked with dark snow-sludge underneath. The rest of their body drags some snow off of your balcony inside too. There, it's promptly melting into dark spots on your carpet.
"Sorry, sorry, shit—!" You curse as his—you think—shoulder catches on the doorway with a loud thud that rocks through his entire body. If the stranger felt any of the impact however, he's certainly not showing it. Unmoving as a corpse.
As soon as you lean over the readjust him, dizziness makes the world around you spin. You take his arm into your hands and hiss. It's cold, bitingly so, your skin practically sticking to it and it doesn't have the give of flesh. All you can think of is your tongue sticking to the popsicle and the fact that he has to be dead, that rigor mortis stiffening him more by the second. Then, there's the question of how you're going to explain away a corpse in your apartment.
With another harsh pull, you manage to get him inside and slam the sliding door shut. The man is dressed in a strange get-up of black upon black, plenty of pockets and, most strikingly, a mask covering the lower half of his face. There's snow in his brown hair. Unbidden, you wonder to yourself whether this is good enough of a reason to call in sick to the store tomorrow. A desperate, humourless laugh bubbles from your throat, ending as soon as it started. You're shivering violently. Not only from the temperature dropping more than a few degrees, but the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.
It's that exact moment he chooses to grunt. At the same time, his leg twitches and drops back down to the floor. Okay. Not dead. Your mind starts to race once more. You kneel on the floor next to him and make a grab for his wrist, forgetting, in your hurry, your earlier experience.
When you touch it again, you have no idea how you missed before that his arm is made out of solid metal. You pause for just a moment. Shaking your head, muttering another curse underneath your breath, you stretch yourself out over his body and make a grab at his other wrist. Cold, but comfortingly human. Your thumb finds his pulse. It throbs steadily underneath your touch. You let out a shuddering breath as you sit back on your knees.
What you should probably do is call an ambulance… And yet, you can't bring yourself to do it. (Not that your trembling fingers would be very successful at dialling any number on your slider phone.) He's got this strangely advanced metal arm, crash-landed on your fifth floor balcony, and an entirely black outfit, mask included. You can't help but feel that getting the authorities involved might be more trouble than it's worth.
You're also not just going to let him die on your living room floor, though. But, what do you do? You hop back to your feet as a way to vent your restless energy, pacing back and forth for a couple of seconds before deciding.
You need to get him out of those clothes. It's freezing outside and whatever suit he's wearing is by no means dry. You have no idea where to start, so you just start undoing belts and zippers and little clasps at random, pulling at his vest—still largely stuck—before moving to the pouches along his belt instead. They're pretty heavy. Opening one of them, you find it entirely full of bullets. The other is stuffed with small throwing knives. You swallow thickly.
Your eyes wander a little lower and you wonder if, before this, your brain just hadn't wanted to register the gun strapped neatly into a leg holster. Once again, you're unsure whether it was a good idea to refrain from calling the cops. Either way, this whole thing spelled trouble. It's clear that he isn't a normal civilian. As if the metal arm hadn't made that clear enough. You could still make a call. It's not too late. But first… With trembling hands, movements with only the smallest of increments, you take the gun from its holster. You treat it as if it may jump to live and bite you at any moment, steering far, far away from the trigger.
You're breathing quickly again. Not wanting to leave the man unattended, you lift one of the decorative pillows on your couch and gently put the gun behind it. You roll your shoulders. It isn't enough to relieve the tension in your body. You get to your feet and pace back and forth instead, your legs feeling so heavy, tense with the desire to run. Maybe you don't have to call anyone after all. Your conflict-averse brain latches onto this idea at once.
Yes, that's the best idea you've had all night. He's not dead. He'll wake up, and when he wakes up the apartment will be empty. You could just throw on your coat and your gloves and a scarf, and go out to find the nearest bar. Get a drink or two. You need it. Steeling yourself, you take one last look at the stranger on your floor.
His eyes are open. He's staring at you. When your eyes meet his, he breaks his gaze away almost instantly, darting around your living room instead. They're a little too wide. Even behind his mask, you can hear his raspy, quick breaths. He lifts up his head a little. It's the first time that you see the puddle of blood forming underneath his head, a dark-red ooze that'll permanently dye the carpet. You hold your breath. Despite having thoughts of fleeing less than a minute ago, you're now nailed to the floor.
"Hand…ler…?" He croaks out, voice rough behind the mask you hadn't managed to figure out to remove.
The man breathes again, loud and sounding wrong. His fingers dig into the carpet. One hand of flesh, the other of metal. He leans his weight on them, pushing himself upward, only for his head to loll to the side like a puppet's. With a thud, he lands back on his elbows. His metal arm whirrs audibly and the other trembles. Something stupid and dangerous, akin to pity, flares to life inside your chest.
"Handler?" He asks again. A little clearer, this time, his eyes on you once more. His gaze is intense. Your throat feels bone-dry.
"Yeah," you tell him, in an attempt to placate him. You have no idea what he's asking. "Yeah, that's me. You're bleeding. Don't try to get— You should stay down, okay?"
You jump a little, sucking in a sharp breath, as he collapses in on himself at your words. He let himself fall so abruptly and suddenly that his head knocked, hard, into the floor. The only indication of his pain is the squinting of his eyes.
Okay. This man clearly has a concussion, and probably a pretty severe one at that. That lines up with a head wound, right? You feel relieved, and you don't want to dissect how bad of a person that makes you right now. Your shoulders slump a little. Unless he's putting on an act, he's in no state to do much of anything at the moment. Much less try to stab, shoot or strangle you.
You crouch down, sliding the removed pouches, holster and belt a little further away from him. "How are you feeling? You, uh, fell really hard. On your head, I think. I brought you inside."
His eyes are still fixed on yours. You squirm a little, looking out through the window that you'd find him instead. There's a delay in his response, but it comes in the end.
"It will heal."
Your stomach is tight with discomfort. You get to your feet, swaying a little with leftover stress. "Are you cold? Do, do you need something to wrap your head with? Should I— Should I call an ambulance?" The cops, you add again, quietly to yourself, still doubting.
"Yes. Yes. No." He responds once you're done babbling, only the slightest pause in between each of his responses. A disbelieving, slightly off-tune laugh bursts from your lips. His expression doesn't change. Yeah, sure, this is a thing that's happening right now.
"Okay, okay, I'll be right back. I'll get you a change of clothes."
It's all good. You're not going to have a complete stranger, possibly an assassin, bleed out on your living room floor. Your nerves settle just a little with a clear task outlined in front of you, to find something warmer to wear and something to stop the bleeding.
You have no idea if the cotton and gauze you manage to find stuffed at the bottom of a drawer will do any good. There's only regular tape to tie it all together, and you have no idea whether the largest hoodie you own will fit him quite right. At least you tried. It's hard to think straight, especially with your mind constantly echoing that this kind of thing is not supposed to happen to people like you. You don't live in some big-name city like New York, where there's life-altering and planet-endangering shenanigans seemingly every other week. It's supposed to be quiet here.
You tuck a blanket underneath your arm. It's nice and warm, you'd gotten it from a thrift store a while back, but now you're resigning yourself to the fact that it'll end up bloodstained. There are bigger things for you to worry about.
Like, for example, the now the mostly undressed stranger, possible assassin, bleeding out on your living room carpet. As you'd been busy finding things to patch and dress him up with, he hadn't been sitting still either.
He's shed most of his clothing, revealing a toned, though not overly defined, chest. His metal arm rises up to about his shoulder. Most of his skin is flushed angrily red in response to the cold and his body hair is slicked against his skin with molten snow. And blood. On his right shoulder, underneath the head wound, there's a gash on his shoulder. It oozes a slow trickle of blood. Thicker and darker than you would've expected. For a moment, you just stare.
"My shoulder was dislocated," he says, voice still as raspy. Maybe you should've gotten him some water. You can't remember if you're supposed to offer that with a head injury. "I pushed it back into the socket."
You don't really know what to say to that. "Um… That's, that's good. Good job. Can I do, like, anything else for your shoulder?" He shakes his head. You swallow, then nod slowly. "Alright, let's… We'll get you fixed up more."
You kneel down next to him, opting to use the blanket as a towel instead as you wipe away the cold moisture on his skin. He reaches out for the medical supplies you'd put on the ground next to you. Slowly, at first. Then, when you make no move to stop him, he cuts off a strip of bandaging and wraps it around the wound. You're still wiping him down when all of his movements still. His fingers keep the bandages and cotton wrapped around his arm.
"What's wrong? Is it your head?"
"The tape," he replies instead. It's too far out of his reach, and he's only got two hands.
"Oh, yeah, I'll get that for you. Just let me know when you need something, okay?" You say, still grappling with the whole situation. You have no idea how to carry yourself. But you tear off a piece of tape and use it to tie the bandages together.
When you look back at him, there's a little stream of blood from his head that's made it onto his forehead. Before you have the chance to say something, he's working on that wound of his too. His hands are surprisingly steady. Practised, even. Following the motions with skill despite the tremors of cold making his whole body shake. He removes his mask with a kind of clasp at the back of his head, hidden underneath his hair. It reveals a handsome face, one with a stubble.
"You're head is… It's bleeding a lot." You don't get any response to your comment whatsoever. Maybe he's just too focused on the task. Still, it's disconcerting.
Even disregarding the whole absurdity of this situation, there's something inherently strange about the man you're faced with. A little off-putting. You couldn't quite put your finger on it before, but it has to be that he doesn't speak unless spoken to. He doesn't emote much at all either. If he's feeling any shred of the emotional turmoil you do right now, if he were distressed about waking up battered in a stranger's home, he doesn't show any of it. He's only quiet. And stares at you— A lot. His gaze is, somehow, both oppressing and blank.
He's undressed his upper half, but his lower half is still clad in sodden clothes. You decide to focus on that next. In order to test your little theory, you start undoing his belt. The man doesn't respond whatsoever, just keeps working on his head wound. Your own embarrassment starts to catch up with you as you start to tug his pants down, revealing more cold-flushed skin.
"What happened?" You ask, in an attempt to fill the silence that feels increasingly uncomfortable for you.
Reaching for the blanket, you grab it and toss it over his lap. You're not going to start taking off his underwear. That's a step too far. From the angle of his arm, you can tell that he's still holding the bandages against the side of his head. Though you don't look up, you know he must be staring at you again.
"…I do not remember." He starts slowly. "There was a mission. That is why I was here, and then… I do not know. Excuse me for being unable to answer your question, handler."
Your eyes flicker up. There's a deep crease in between his eyebrows, his eyes, for once, downcast.
"It's okay," you say quickly despite yourself.
There's no doubt about it now that he has a concussion. You sigh in frustration, tugging down the wet fabric clinging to his legs further. You focus on that for now. He's pretty hairy. Part of his skin have turned practically purple in response to the freezing temperature, and you pull the blanket down further over his legs. No metal ones there. Only when you reach the top part of his boots do you stop. His boots are wet on the underside, all the snow having melted into the carpet.
You're so fucking indecisive, you inwardly curse yourself. This isn't anything you could've prepared yourself for, but it's hard not to start screaming. He drops his bloodied bandages on the floor and starts grabbing some more.
"I think I'm going to call an ambulance." The adrenaline crash is in full swing, and you'd never been energetic tonight to begin with. Your eyelids feel heavy. It takes you a couple of tries to unlace his boots and start tugging them down.
"You said to tell you what I need," he says. "That's not what I need right now."
You slam one of your hands on the floor, tossing your head back, meeting his gaze with your narrowed ones. "Then what do you need?"
"I need some time to heal. I do not need to be taken away. I need to stay with you."
You practically choke on a bit of your own saliva. "S-stay with me?!" You sputter. "Why?!"
His voice never once falters, neither does he look away. You don't think you've held this much eye contact with another human being for the past year.
"Because you are my handler." He says it with such natural conviction, without any shred of doubt. Embarrassingly enough, you feel a bit of heat rush to your face. "You have not given me any mission yet. I need to stay with you until you do."
He's quiet for a moment, then opens his mouth and closes it again. You wait a couple of seconds for him to speak. He doesn't continue.
"What's on your mind?" You ask.
"…I'm sorry, but you're not a well-informed handler." You laugh a little at that.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that." You might as well play along for now. If he's acting, he's starting to fool you, to be honest. "Or maybe I'm just testing you? Seeing how much you know after you hit your head."
It was meant to be teasing. You'd redirected your eyes back to his boots and begun to untie the other's laces, when he responds with nothing but sincerity.
"I remember this. You are my handler, and I am the asset. This means that I will obey with any of your commands without question, whatever they may be. This is what's expected of me."
You blink at him as you lift your head again, unable to ignore this. At the same time, you're tugging on one of his unlaced boots, nearly toppling over when it suddenly pops free.
"Are you messing with me? Like, are you joking right now?" Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. He's rubbing his legs over the blanket, his metal arm whirring. "I know what you— You came in here with a bunch of weapons!"
He blinks at you, then again. As if you're the odd one here.
"I'm not joking." He's frowning again. "I carry weapons because that is required of me."
You let out a shuddering breath. "You won't hurt me, that's what you're saying?"
"Do you want me to hurt you?" In response, you shake your head. "Then my answer is 'no'."
You have no idea what's going on anymore, frankly. "…So, basically, you'd do anything I ask?"
"Yes," is your immediate response. Your hand jerks up and you rub the top of your head, smoothing down your hair. The settling heat on your face returns once again. God, you're a loser.
The worst part is that you kind of want to believe him. That, maybe, you already do. There have been a million chances for him to strike you down if he'd really wanted to. And yet, he hadn't. But… Something as baffling as this isn't supposed to happen around here, much less to someone like you.
"Alright. Alright! Okay—" You're starting to think that maybe you passed out on the couch after all, and this is all conjured up by your sleep-deprived mind. "Then, right now, I'm asking you to stay where you are. Take care of your wounds." The weight of commands is unfamiliar on your tongue. You've never liked ordering others around. "You were honest when you said you'd heal just fine?"
"I heal quicker than humans," he says.
"I'll still… Let me get you something warm to drink. While I'm gone, you can put that on." You gesture vaguely in the direction of where you'd tossed the hoodie.
You're gathering all of his other clothes in your arms. You'll just put them on the radiator somewhere and hope they dry. As soon as you're in the kitchen, you turn on the kettle. By the time you've hung out all his clothes to dry and found some fuzzy socks somewhere (an old Christmas gift), the water is boiling and ready. You make him a simple cup of tea. For him, you put in a fresh bag, though you reuse it for your own mug.
He's actually still there when you return.
All of his wounds are bandaged up by now. He's just sitting there, staring into space, head tilting in your direction at the sound of your footsteps. If not for those slight movements, you'd hardly be able to tell that he was alive. He's shivering less underneath the warmth of the blanket.
"Here. You should drink it, but it's still pretty hot." You hand him the mug. He takes it with his metal hand. Despite your warning, he puts the cup to his lips and starts to drink. No hesitation, no flinching, only the slightest twitch at the corner of your eye. You just stare in stunned silence.
"Doesn't— Doesn't that hurt?" You ask as soon as he's chugged it all down, eyes still wide.
"You told me to drink it," he responds, his voice a little gravely. Your mouth closes on its own. You press your lips against each other. You make the tactical decision to take a moment to process this. Only when you sit down on the couch, do you feel the exhaustion in your upper legs.
The weapons you'd found on him—the gun, the throwing knives, other things you couldn't quite identify— are exactly where you'd left them. At the settling of your weight on the couch cushions, the gun's handle peeks out from underneath the pillow you'd hid it behind.
In the corner of your eye, you can see him bring the tips of his fingers to his throat before dropping his hand again. He'd really done it. You hadn't even meant it that way, but he'd heard a command and acted accordingly. That's too far for a game of pretend with a completely average civilian such as yourself.
"What's your name?" You ask, finally.
In the back of your mind, you're already thinking of whether you have enough pillows to set up a bed on the couch. Or… Aren't you supposed to frequently check up on someone with a concussion? Every few hours or so? Your bed might be large enough to share. It's an awful idea, a clear display of a lack of survival instincts, but… It's been a while since you've had any kind of company.
You're so stuck on your rumination that you don't immediately notice that your question has been met with resounding silence.
"Sorry, uh, I asked what your name is." He's looking directly at you. There's no way he hadn't heard your question the first time.
"I don't have a name. It's not necessary."
You frown. "What do they call you, then?"
"'Soldier', most often. Or the asset. Or the weapon."
"I don't… Want to call you any of those things." The end of your sentence is punctuated with a sigh. He just looks at you with that stagnant, almost gloomy expression. Sullen.
"'Sully', then." You decide on a whim. "We can think of a better name together later."
In the end, you never do.
You get him dressed and you ask a few more questions. Through them, you learn that he really is some kind of assassin, as you'd assumed. Working for a secret organisation. Despite your curiosity, you hadn't pushed much further. At your core, you simply do not want to know. It's only become clearer to you that having him in your apartment is already dangerous to begin with, fully knowing who or what he is might be even more so.
More importantly, he'd agreed without pause to stay in your room. He'd brushed his teeth after you in the bathroom, with the spare toothbrush you had lying around. Afterwards, he had settled on the floor with nothing but a spare blanket.
"You sure you don't want to be up here?" You ask, though you doubt you'd be able to sleep if he did.
"Yes."
It takes you a while to drift off, your mind restless with all the new impressions and excitement of today. Dissecting every moment, pulling it apart until you start to grow fuzzy on the details of occurrences that had happened a mere few hours prior. Your body is exhausted, though. As soon as you've closed your eyes, you can't pry your eyelids apart anymore. Your bed has never felt quite so comfortable and warm.
You jolt awake with a start later. There's no way for you to tell how much time has passed. Through the haze of sleepiness, you still know that you should give Sully a poke and see whether he's still able to answer you.
With a groan, head lolling to one side, your push yourself up with one hand firmly planted on the mattress. Only for you to jolt fully awake at a dark shadow looming next to your bed. Standing fully upright. You can feel the shot of adrenaline being pumped through your heart.
"Su, Sully? Is that you?" You ask in a hurried whisper.
"Yes, it's me." He responds in his usual voice. Your head slumps and you let out a sigh.
"You scared me, I thought— Well, never mind. Don't just stand there. Lie down. You should get some rest."
Instead of getting back down on the floor, he sits on the edge of the bed. Without even thinking about it, you shuffle backwards, giving him the space he needs to settle down. Well, you hadn't been clear about where he was meant to lie down. And you're not going to kick him off now, that would be rude.
You slowly let your head fall back on the pillow with your heart racing. When he doesn't move any further, you reach out to tug the blanket over you both. He's on his back and seems as stiff as a board. You'll be able to tell if something's wrong, at least.
In the bed, there's barely enough space to avoid the two of you touching. Heat radiates from his body. You curl up small in an attempt to get comfortable. Your legs tucked up, arms close to your body. In the quiet, you can hear Sully's even breathing. In an attempt to calm down and drift off, you start to count them.
You can't remember how far you'd gotten when you wake up the next morning. Your first thought is instead that you're warm, almost uncomfortably so. Still sleepy, you try to move. You're held back by a heavy arm draped over you, the metal arm warmed by your body heat. It's the fabric of your own hoodie pressed against your back, the one you'd given to Sully the day before. Nearly, it's enough to make you drift off to sleep once more. But you're sweaty underneath your pyjamas and Sully's breath, warm and slow, brushing over the top of your head makes you twitch.
What doesn't help is that the man you're sharing a bed with smells like the human equivalent of a wet dog.
"…Are you awake?" You ask softly, little more than a whisper.
"Yes." The answer comes a beat too late. Because of his his usual instantaneous responses, you can only guess that it wasn't the truth.
It's only a rumble against your shoulder. For a moment, you just lie there, then Sully is peeling himself off of you and proceeds to stare at the ceiling. You push yourself up on your hands. Your face is still a little warm. He doesn't comment on your earlier predicament though, doesn't seem flustered about it at all. It helps you not feel as embarrassed either.
"I really don't want to be rude," you start. "But, I have to be honest, you smell pretty bad."
He doesn't respond, though he has turned to look at you.
You clear your throat. "So, could you take a shower? Or a bath? You can use my stuff, I don't mind. I hung out your clothes last night, but I don't think they've dried yet, so you'll have to wear some more of my clothes."
"I understand." When he gets up, he nearly stumbles and falls, needing to catch himself on the wall to keep from falling over. Oh, yeah, the concussion.
"You know what—" You're at his side in a moment, only taking a step back when you can tell he won't trip again. "I'll help. I can run the bath, you should probably sit down… You mind if I help get the blood out of your hair? I'll, I'll look away."
He doesn't mind. You think if you told him to strip naked and do a silly little dance right now, he might actually do it. You shake your head a little as if to clear the thought out of your brain.
Sully follows you as you make your way to the bathroom and turn on the tap. He stands so closely behind you, in fact, that you bump into him as soon as you straighten up again.
"Oh— Sorry. You can, uh, take off your clothes and get in, I'll be here… Turned around. Let me know if you get dizzy."
You know it might be silly, considering you're about to see him naked regardless, but it feels more respectful to turn away. And, well, you almost saw him naked yesterday too.
There's only the noise of garments hitting the floor and the steady pouring of the tap. Quickly, you glance up into the mirror, just to make sure that he isn't unsteady on his feet. He seems a lot better than before, and you lower your eyes again.
Water sloshes around in the bathtub as he sits down. You gather a comb and brush from the sink cabinet before turning around. The first thing you do is pour a slosh of bath soap in it. You don't have to worry about looking if you can't see anything.
"You can adjust the temperature, if you want." The first thing he does is turn the handle all the way to the hottest setting. "Ah, still cold, are you?"
"A little." Your eyes roam over his head, shoulders, catching on his metal arm.
"Is it water-resistant? Your arm, I mean."
"Yes. It also cannot be taken off, so it does not matter." The skin around the place where the metal meets flesh is flushed red, annoyed. If you're being honest, it looks painful. Dug into the skin, stitched together, rather than merely slipped on.
Releasing a breath, you kneel down on the bath mat and take a look at what you're working with. His hair is a bit of a mess, to put it lightly. The worst offender being the part where his wound was the last night. The hair there is clumped together with dried blood into a solid mass. You're hesitant to just start pouring water over it because of the wound underneath. You click your tongue.
"I'm going to grab a cup— I'll be right back."
It's a lot easier than cupping your hands. You rush to the kitchen and back, returning to your earlier position. There's a solid layer of bubbles covering his body now, including a wall of steam. He really likes his baths hot. In order to scoop out some water, you clear away a bit of the soap and wipe the suds off on the bath mat.
In one hand, you carefully take a clump of bloodied hair. In the other, you take the cup and start to pour over it. You rub the wet hair in between your fingers. They're immediately stained red. As soon as the worst is washed out, you run through it with a wet comb. Then, you do the same thing, but with your fingers coated with shampoo and, later, conditioner. It takes absolutely forever as you move your way further up towards his scalp.
His hair is dirty, after all. There's knots in there so big that you spend a few minutes untying them, others that you end up having to cut out with a pair of scissors. He's like a matted dog. You pull out clumps of hair that aren't attached to anything at all and stick them on the tiled floor to be thrown away later. …You really need to wash your pillowcase after this. You're so lost in the repetitive tasks, that you hardly notice that the bath's a few inches away from spilling on the floor.
"I think the bath's full enough." In response, Sully reaches out and turns off the tap. You squint at his hair, knowing about the wound that's underneath it. "Does any of this hurt?"
"No." His voice is the most quiet you've heard him, though you'll admit that you haven't known him for very long. "The outside's healed already."
"It has?" You can't hide the surprise in your voice. "I'm pretty sure that's impossible."
"It is the same as I said before: I heal faster than humans."
Less careful now, you part his hair and peer through it. There really is no wound to be found on the side of his head. You breathe out a slow sigh. What you're seeing really is reality, so you continue on with washing his hair, a little less carefully than before. Rather than just washing the worst of his strands of hair, you massage your fingers alongside his scalp as well. The shampoo still doesn't produce much bubbles, so you go for another round. There's something soothing about cleaning him so thoroughly even though your fingers are starting to get a bit sore from the repetitive movements. The tips of them are wrinkled from the water.
Part of the reason you're taking your time with it is because Sully seems to be enjoying himself too. He's quiet other than the occasional slow exhale. What he does do, however, is lean into your touch. Leaning his neck in your direction and tilting his head like a pleased cat hoping for more scritches. Your heart warms with a bit of unexpected affection. It must've been a while since anyone has touched him like this. …You don't think you ever have been, at least. You smile as he lets out a sigh as your nails lightly scratch the top of his head.
You knead a final round of conditioner in his locks and grab a tube of body scrub. The glove that comes with is on the end of 'comically small' while pulled over his hand, but it does the job. You squirt a sizeable amount on it.
"This is body scrub. It feels a bit like… Paste with sand in it, I guess? It helps you get all the dead skin and dirt off, so you can just get to rubbing it everywhere." You turn around. "Well, not near your genitals— Just let me know if you need any help. I can do your back for you later."
You stare at the fogged-up mirror. He doesn't respond, which is expected. The sound of water sloshing around in the tub is about all the indication you need that he's listening to you. It seems to take forever until he's done. To be fair, there is probably quite a bit of dirt on him. It's only weird if you make it weird, you tell yourself, you're just helping out someone who needs it.
"I've scrubbed everything," comes softly from behind you.
"Alright, then I'll do your back." You're lucky that you have another glove with you. You try not to let your gaze wander too much, but it's clear he did his job on the rest of his body. His skin is rub red at some points, so maybe he did too good of a job.
You hum a little as you rub your gloved hand up and down his back. It's fascinating, almost, how much dirt comes off. Little rolled up, dark grey bundles of skin that you wipe down into the murky bath water. The upper area of his back is covered in dark hair, thinning out as it goes further down and along. There are a few more scars to be spotted here. Thin, jagged cuts crisscrossing through the skin. They've turned white with age. It takes a little while until you're satisfied. Only halfway through do you remember that he's supposed to be wearing bandages around his shoulders. They're discarded behind you on the floor, bloodied, not a wound in sight.
"I think that's about it," you say, rising to your feet. You keep your gaze off to the side. "You can stay in as long as you want. Got some clothes for you by the sink, towels on the rack, and I'll just be making some breakfast. Feel free to drain it, and get some fresh, warm water in there."
You're not sure whether you're being too condescending or not. He's not a child, after all. But maybe he likes the clear instructions? He's not complaining either way.
"…Thank you."
You smile at that. "Yeah, sure. Just join me whenever you feel like it."
Judging by the almost violent noise of sloshing water in the tub as soon as the door closes behind you, he'll be joining you soon.
You're making a mental list of things to do while shoving two slices of bread in the toaster and cracking two eggs in a frying pan. You need to get him some new clothes because he can't just keep wearing your oversized stuff. Besides that, you need to change the bedsheets. There's no way that you're not giving them a wash after seeing the amount of dirt that came off of that man. And you probably need to get some groceries. You take a step back to find something to flip the eggs with, only to collide with something solid.
"Oh!" You gasp out. "Oh, hey." Sully's body is damp, hair falling down in wet strings along his neck. The fabric on his shoulders is clearly a darker shade than the rest of the hoodie. Gaze slipping lower, you see a trail of wet footsteps making their way into the kitchen. Add a quick mop to the list.
"Did you not find the towels?" You don't want it to sound mean, it's a genuine question.
"You left," he responds, as if that is explanation enough. When you continue staring him down, his tone takes on something that borders on accusatory. "You said I could join you whenever I wanted to."
"Well, I— I guess you're not wrong about that." You laugh. "Next time, just get a bit more dry, okay? I gotta clean up the floor now."
"I will do it, handler," he quickly responds. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't worry about it." It's odd to have someone around you in your apartment. It feels strangely domestic, all of this, and you can feel your walls quickly crumbling. It's dumb, really stupid, but you can't really help it. "…How many eggs would you like for breakfast."
"Four."
You snort. "Alright, big guy. I'll let you know when they're done."
The two of you have a quiet breakfast together and, after that, he helps you with stuff around the house. Sully's always a step or two behind you or lingering in the doorway, so you figured he might as well help. You changed the sheets together and explained to him how the washing machine worked, then the vacuum cleaner. He picks everything up easily enough. You had half-expected him to tap out at some point or to show his 'true colours'. Instead, he's very attentive, asking questions when he doesn't explain something and taking over from you as soon as he understands.
You think he'll wander off eventually, but it doesn't stop for the rest of the day. If you sit on the couch to watch something, he's right there next to you. If you grab a snack from the kitchen, he leans against the counter and watches you work away. If you go to use the bathroom, he's waiting right outside. Going from living on your own to, well, this is a shift so jarring that you're exhausted a couple of hours in.
"Sully, I'm sorry, just…" you sigh and shake your head. "Do you need something from me right now? Otherwise, could you go somewhere else? I just… Would really appreciate some time on my own right now."
"Sorry. I was waiting for a mission."
"I don't think I'll have one for you for quite a while, I'm sorry." You have no idea what you'd have him do. "Go rest up, and let me know when you're completely healed, okay? I'll think of something. If you really don't want to go anywhere else, you can help around the house and get a job… Or something."
He nods quietly and wanders off to the bedroom again. You watch TV on your own for a little while in order to relax. Just as you're wondering whether Sully would even be able to get a job—you don't know whether he has any form of identification—you remember that you're supposed to get him clothes as well. You haven't seen him ever since you told him to leave you alone for a bit, and you go ahead and knock on his door.
It's cold outside on the way to the thrift store. Sully had gone with you without hesitation, because of course he had. It's a couple degrees above freezing. The sun reflects off of the snow all around you, almost making you wish you'd brought a set of sunglasses. Countless tracks have been dragged through the slush of snow.
You let out a little yelp as you lose your footing and grab on to Sully for purchase. He links his arm with yours. It keeps you steady. You mumble out an apology and grip his arm. You didn't have a coat for Sully to wear against the cold, but even while walking outside now he seems to radiate heat. You eye the cars driving past. The 'having a car' situation is pretty dire right now, and you're a little jealous.
Nothing to be done about it now. It's about fifteen minutes of walking. There's not a lot of people out and about right now. The ones that are seem to swerve around you as soon as you come near. Glancing up at Sully, the reason quickly becomes obvious. He's practically staring holes into anyone that comes near. Impolite, maybe. You're glad you won't have to make small talk with anyone, though.
Excepting your initial little slip, the two of you reach the thrift store without any issues. You gesture to a general direction in the store. There's endless rows of racks and hangers and stacks, but you've been here before.
"I think the men's stuff is over there," you tell him. "Just pick something out and I'll pay for it. Probably all of the basics and, like, a coat? It might be cold for a while longer." It's a little hard sometimes to tell what he needs extra explanations on, and what he doesn't.
"I will find satisfactory clothing."
You don't intend on buying anything. you don't have that much money to spend and you're sure that Sully's outfits will end up taking a chunk out of your budget. Instead, you just wander around for a little while and check out the new things that have come in. When you make your way to Sully, tall enough for his head to stick out above the clothing racks, his hands are still empty. He's packing back and forth.
"Have you found anything you like?" He looks to be frowning even harder than usual.
"There are… A lot of choices," he responds slowly. "I will need more time to determine which are the best options."
"Would it help if I gave you some options to choose from?" If he's going to be going through all the clothes here, that'll take him ages. The crease in between his brow seems to relax a little at that and he's nodding.
"Yes. That would help."
You pick out some simple clothes for him, mostly single colours, and fit for the warm weather. They end up pretty big because most of the sizing of the smaller shirts seems fine, until you try to get it to fit over his arms. In the end, it still ends up taking quite a while. You do find a sweater in darker grey colours that you quite like. Your fingers graze over fabric and you're not looking at him, as you ask.
"Your past handlers, they, they didn't often make you decisions for yourself?"
"I am expected to be able to make decisions on my own to ensure the optimal outcome of the mission," he responds. "Clothing is not usually one of my concerns."
You're quiet for a little while. As you follow the motions through the store, with Sully following half a step behind you as you go to pay, you're lost in thought. He doesn't start conversations on his own. It's only on the way back that you ask your question. If he's still acting at this point, it's a convincing one.
"If I told you to leave, what would you do?"
"I would leave."
You wait for any further elaboration, but none comes. He had offered you his arm to link through again as you made your way back over icy sidewalks. Sully's grip on you tightens a little.
"And then?"
"…'To leave' would be my only order? I would stay away and attempt to keep myself alive."
"You wouldn't go and find another handler?"
"I do not choose my handlers, they are chosen for me," he says, and you can once again hear the frown in his voice. "Excuse me, handler, I am not sure what response you are trying to hear. I'm sorry." The words are flat, spoken without actual guilt behind them.
You'd just been, curious, wanted to know whether you could let him go out into the world and he'd be alright.
"Are you implying you want me to leave?"
"No, I—" Saying that you'd like to 'keep him' feels demeaning. He's not some kind of dog, not some kind of weapon, despite what he seems to believe himself. But it seems he doesn't actually want to go ahead and do something with his life if you let him do whatever he wanted. Or maybe you could… Help him better get to that point?"
"I don't have… I don't have a good mission for you right now, would you still want to stay, then? I'll figure something out for you."
"I would stay. I do not judge the missions I receive, I do not have the right…" he trails off. When you look up at him, his mouth is slightly open. He closes it again.
"Go on. Share your thoughts. As a general rule, Sully," you start, your voice taking on steadiness that makes it clear to him how serious you are. "I'd like to hear what is on your mind and what you want, okay?"
"You are a very unusual handler," he says, and you laugh.
"Yeah, that sounds about right. Do you mind?"
"No." Maybe you'll be able to train a sense of humour into him.
The two of you, with some time, manage to settle in some kind of routine. Sully has found a job with irregular hours in a warehouse (how, exactly, you're not sure, it's working out, and that's what matters. You're both happy and a little sad he doesn't hang around your workplace anymore). The pay's not great, but neither of yours is, and you've. always managed to make ends meet. Sully never looks as tired as you do in the mornings. He also keeps the house in order, often even prepares lunches for you. He ignores any and all of your protests. That's another thing that's changed over the months: he's started listening to you a bit less, which you suppose is a good thing.
"You told me I should do what I want, and say what I think," he just responds to your protests. "I want to do this. So, asking me not to won't achieve anything."
You think he'd stop if you ordered him to do so, but you have no intention of doing so. It's only been fun and exciting for you to see more and more of his personality and interests come to light. Sully likes going to the library to pick up old movies, like, half-a-century old, and sometimes watches the same ones over and over again, frowning. You'd managed to pick up an old gramophone from an antique shop after saving up for a while, and he'd been really happy with it. Sully likes to have something to do. He gets restless and one of the few orders you do give is for him to just sit down. Often, he cooks, but that might be because he seems to always be starving.
He's touchy, too. You don't mind, honestly, you're touch-starved and happy for the company. Something you have in common. Neither of your draw attention to it when he wraps an arm around you while sitting on the couch, or how he doesn't even pretend to be going into the guest bedroom anymore. A bigger bed should probably be something to save up for, but you quite like being cosied up next to him. Still, you had offered it to him. It shouldn't all be about what you want.
It only led to you seeing the first glimpses of a teasing side to his personality. "I don't think I'd rather be anywhere else right now," he'd said with a smile. "Or are you going to order me to leave, handler?"
You wouldn't. And he'd known that, of course, much as it amused him. You like his company too much, regardless of the fact that you don't really know what you are to each other. You've never asked him out or really spoken about it, never done anything outright romantic like kiss. Despite the butterflies in your stomach that you get in his presence, you don't dare disturb the equilibrium you've achieved and lose it all in the process. Rathe just 'overly touchy' roommates than to find out he's just acting like this because he still sees you as his superior.
(Occasionally, there is the odd occurrence. There had been some kind of leakage in the roof of the store you worked in and it'd closed hours earlier than you were supposed to. You'll miss the pay, but in the moment you were just happy to be done. When you walked through the door, you'd been smiling, eager to call out for Sully— Only to run into a wall of bleach. The smell was so strong that it burned the inside of your nose as you inhaled.
"What happened? It smells like… You accidentally made chlorine gas, or something."
"Yes… Accidentally mixed something, then spilled it," Sully says, a large garbage bag tucked underneath his arm. "I am cleaning it. I thought you would be home later. Why don't you go to the library, and I'll open the windows until the smell is gone?"
You try not to think about it too hard. It's not worth it.)
On the other end of the spectrum, you'd walked in on Sully sitting on the couch, fly unzipped and belt down, his fist wrapped around his cock. In your shock, your eyes had lingered long enough for your brain to register two things. One, fuck, he's huge, and two, oh god, he's jerking off in the middle of the living room. He'd heard you come in and hadn't even stopped touching himself. You promptly turned around, hands flying up to cover your eyes.
Even then, the slick noise of his hand pumping his erection didn't stop.
"Sully! Oh my god, stop— You can't just do that!" You cried out, because he wasn't stopping due to the social pressure alone. "Stop! Just, just get your clothes back on." Your face is on fire. You swear he'd been looking at you while touching himself.
"Tell me, tell me when you're done and I can turn around," you said next. His clothes showed that his cock hadn't flagged much, the bulge visibly straining against the fabric. "And go wash your hands, please!"
You hadn't mentioned it again, but you'd be lying if you said that the sight of his cock hadn't crossed your mind since. That was only a week ago and it's driving you a little crazy. He also doesn't bring it up, which makes it clear that Sully doesn't want to talk about it either. But it's getting to him too, you think. He's more restless than ever and has started working through a list of '100 hobbies to try' that you'd printed out for him.
It comes to a head about a week later, when you wake up in the middle of the night.
It's not the first time it happens. Sully has plenty of nightmares that he jolts awake from and refuses to talk about. You'll jerk away to him shooting upright in bed, the last chords of a cry still on his lips. Sometimes, it's enough to put a hand on him and soothe him back. Other times, you need to flick on the light on the bedside table to show him exactly where he is, or offer him a glass of water with ice cubes in it. Holding the cubes in his hands seems to ground him even more. But he always calms down, in the end, and Sully thanks you before going back to sleep.
It's different when you wake up this time.
For one, it's not a sudden jolt to the surface. You're warm and cosy underneath your blankets, pressed down into the mattress. Your awakening is slow. A little undecipherable noise slips past your lips and the movement, gentle and steady, like the rocking of a boat, comes to a halt. Ironically enough, it's exactly this change in rhythm that ends up rousing you.
More than just warm, it feels like you're being smothered. Sully is wrapped around you, a leg slipped across over both of yours, his head above yours on the pillow. One of his hands rests on your stomach. Curled up and holding you to his chest. There's been some touching while both of you have shared a bed, it's unavoidable, but it's usually in the realm of getting an elbow in your shoulder. Nothing like this. Nothing like the unmistakable bulge rubbing against your ass.
Your face feels like it's on fire. It's hard to keep your eyes fully closed now, eyelids fighting to flutter open. Sully's breath is heavy and hot against the top of your head. The hand that's on your stomach pinches the skin there a little. You're not sure— This is a lot to take in all at once. You try to keep your breathing as unchanged as if you were still asleep, but your heart is picking up a rapid pace. You can feel that wetness has already gathered in between your legs.
"Sully…" You say slowly, and his arm around you tightens.
"I'm sorry," he breathes out. Rather than slowing, the thrusting of his hips against your ass grows a little more intens. "You can punish me for this, if you want, handler— You do not like them, I know, but… You told me not to touch myself, and this is worse."
"Told you not to touch yourself? When did I— Oh." Of course, it had to have been the one time you mentioned anything like that. And it had only been a week ago. "I didn't mean, I just meant that you shouldn't do it out in the open."
"Well, what am I doing right now?" He asks, breathily, and still he doesn't stop. "If you don't know how to punish me, I have ideas. Force me out into the cold, throw cold water over me, or—"
"I don't do punishments, Sully." A tremor has crept into your voice. Saliva has gathered in your mouth, knowing that you'd been suffering in silence because he wants you he wants you he wants you without any order.
"And I'm not going to start with them now. I was— I was unclear, and I was in the wrong for that."
"Why are you not telling me to stop?" He murmurs, quieter this time. His movements have slowed again.
"Be, because," your voice cracks. You've been making him voice his desires all this time, ordering him to always share what he wanted, and yet you had failed to do the same thing all along. "Because I don't want you stop. I never… I would never ask for something like this, I was scared that you— I don't want to make you do anything you don't want. Couldn't order something like this, on accident."
Sully lets out a groan, drawn-out and rumbling. "You are so odd, handler. One of your first orders was to always do what I want. I wouldn't do this if I didn't, you couldn't have made me."
The problem is, you don't quite believe that. Sully stab himself in the gut, you think, if you asked him to do it. Acting out your orders is something he believes he wants to do, isn't it?
"I don't, I don't think—"
"You didn't ask me to do this," he interjects. "This is all me. I went against your orders, so punish me, or let me keep going. I want you, I have wanted you. Any way you'll let me have you."
You press your face sideways into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. Those words from him are about the sweetest, most personal thing you've ever heard, and you can't think of anything to say that'll match it. Not with your brain seeming to melt more inside of your skull with each passing moment.
"Don't, don't stop," you whisper and Sully buries his face into your hair. You lift your leg up a little and his knee immediately presses against your crotch, applying pressure as you grind down against it.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he presses his lips to the top of your head, each sentence punctuated by a hot puff of air. "Won't stop, always do what you want—" His hips stutter against your ass, you're pulled flush against him so tight that you're not sure where you end and he begins. Sweat slicks your skin underneath your clothes, but you don't move to take them off. You hardly move at all, terrified of shattering the moment.
You whine at the friction, all-consuming and at the same time by no means enough. "I wanted this," you say, all you can think of. You try to match your movements with his. Your rhythms remain barely out of sync, Sully humping you like an animal in heat, the bed frame creaking with each of his movements.
"I wanted you to do something like this, too."
"You should have asked earlier," is the response you receive. "Tell me what you want now."
You stop being able to speak when the pressure in your stomach, the desire to touch yourself, outweighs all else and you slip a hand in past the front of your pants. They're easily made slick with your arousal and you furiously start rubbing at yourself.
"Kiss, kiss my neck?" You ask shakily. At once, Sully is there, wet lips kissing and sucking on the flesh of your throat. You shudder with pleasure as the tip of his tongue wets the skin.
Egged on by his noises, you let out of a shaky moan of your own as you work yourself to the edge with your fingers. You hardly need any stimulation to get there.
"Please, please." Sully breathes out against the skin of your throat, and you don't need any explanation to know what he's begging for. You still your fingers and focus on moving back against him, prioritizing his pleasure over your own.
"Cum." The word comes out like a command, and Sully trembles behind you, a strangled moan pulled from his throat. His pace becomes stuttered and fragmented. Then, his mouth once again starts to form words of gratitude.
"Thank you, you're the best, best handler— Always so good to me, the best to me, thank you, always." You clench around nothing at his words, panting heavily. "You're, you're my favourite, yes."
Sully never lies to you, and what have you given him in return? You feel selfish, gluttonous. And yet, you can't help yourself, going back to touching yourself, holding your breath as you press your face into the pillow. He's stopped grinding himself against you, instead groping at your chest and thighs. Your fingers are starting to cramp, growing wrinkled with the amount of slick you're coated in, but you couldn't care less right now.
"Don't leave me, okay?" Your real desire spills free from you, pulled loose by your sleepiness and arousal. "Please don't leave me alone again, I—" You let out a half-sob as Sully sucks on your throat.
"Won't. Ever," he growls against you, and it's enough to shove you over the edge, noisy and babbling as pleasure rocks you to your core. If it weren't for the words you just said, you would've immediately drifted off again, limbs deliciously relaxed.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't take it back." He says it so sternly that your mouth immediately snaps back shut again. "Those were your true feelings. I'll stay."
"Because you want to?"
"Because I want to."