This may be a bit niche, but, I saw a movie from 1946 recently called The Best Years of Our Lives about soldiers coming home from WWII. One of the shoulders lost both of his lower arms and wears prosthetics (actually a disabled actor too) and his plot is he has a fiance but now he doesn’t want to marry her because he doesn’t want to be a burden. He actually has her watch his bedroom routine where his father has to help him out of his prosthetics and into his pjs showing how helpless he is. The girl is like “okay so? I still love you.”
So anyway, this got me thinking about Bucky returning from the war to reader but still missing his arm and reacting similarly. He thinks she deserves a whole man. But she just wants him as is. Sorry if it’s too weird, I just thought the plot from that movie would make a good Bucky fic
You know he’s home before anyone tells you.
It’s not the newspapers or the murmured conversations in the corner store, not even the way Mrs. Delaney squeezes your hand a little too tight and says, “He made it back, sweetheart.” It’s something quieter than that—something that settles deep in your chest, a pull that hasn’t loosened since the day he left.
James Buchanan Barnes is home.
You wait two days before going to see him.
Not because you don’t want to—not because you’re unsure—but because you know him. You know the way he folds into himself when things get too heavy, the way he’ll try to carry the whole world on his back if it means no one has to see him break under it. If you go too soon, he’ll put on that smile, that easy charm, and you won’t know what’s real.
So you wait.
And then you knock.
His mother answers the door, her face crumpling the second she sees you. “Oh, honey,” she breathes, pulling you into a hug that smells like flour and soap and something achingly familiar. “He’s—he’s upstairs.”
You nod, throat tight, and make your way up the narrow staircase you’ve climbed a hundred times before.
The door to his room is half open.
You push it gently.
“Buck?”
He’s standing by the window, back to you, shoulders broad and stiff under a plain white shirt. For a second—just a second—it feels like nothing has changed. Like he’ll turn around grinning, teasing you for taking so long, asking if you missed him.
Then he turns.
And the world shifts.
Your eyes go straight to his left side.
Where his arm should be.
Where it isn’t.
The sleeve is pinned neatly at the shoulder, the fabric lying flat in a way that makes your chest ache. He watches you notice, watches the way your breath catches, and something shutters behind his eyes.
“Hey, doll,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s all nothing.
“Hi, Buck.”
Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, like if you speak too loud you might break something fragile between you.
Silence stretches.
He doesn’t move closer.
Neither do you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says finally, gaze dropping to the floor like he can’t quite look at you anymore.
Your brow furrows. “What?”
“I mean it.” His jaw tightens. “You—you shouldn’t have come.”
You take a step forward. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home for years, James. I think I get to decide that.”
His laugh is short, humorless. “Yeah? That was before.”
Before.
Before the war. Before the train. Before he came back… less.
“I don’t care about before,” you say, steady. “I care that you’re here now.”
“That’s the problem,” he snaps, finally looking at you—and there’s something raw in his eyes, something you’ve never seen before. “I’m not. Not really. Not the way I was.”
Your heart stutters, but you don’t stop. “You’re still you.”
He shakes his head, sharp. “No. I’m not. I can’t even—” He cuts himself off, frustration bleeding into every line of his body. “I can’t even do half the things I used to. I can’t work the same, can’t take care of—” His voice drops, rough. “Can’t take care of you.”
You blink. “I never asked you to take care of me.”
“That’s not the point,” he says. “You deserve someone who can. Someone whole.”
The word lands heavy between you.
Whole.
You take another step closer, slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “You think you’re not whole because of your arm?”
“It’s not just the arm,” he mutters. “It’s everything. You don’t—” He huffs out a breath. “You don’t see what it’s like. You don’t see how… how useless I am now.”
Your chest tightens. “Then show me.”
He freezes.
“What?”
“Show me,” you repeat, softer this time. “If that’s what you think I need to understand, then show me.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then something shifts in his expression—something resigned, almost defeated.
“Fine,” he says quietly. “You wanna see? I’ll show you.”
---
It’s harder than you expect.
There’s no bravado now, no teasing grin, no easy confidence. Just a man standing in his bedroom, shoulders hunched, letting you see the parts of himself he clearly hates.
His father helps him first.
That alone nearly breaks you.
George Barnes—steady, kind, always a little gruff—moves with practiced ease, like this is something they’ve done a hundred times already. He helps Bucky with the straps, the buckles, the careful removal of the prosthetic.
Bucky doesn’t look at you while it happens.
He stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, like he’s bracing for impact.
When the prosthetic comes off, you finally see it fully—the absence, the scar, the reality of what he’s been living with.
Your throat burns.
Not with pity.
Never pity.
With something deeper. Something fierce.
His father steps out quietly after that, giving you both space.
Bucky lets out a breath, shoulders sagging. “There,” he says, voice hollow. “That’s it. That’s what you’re signing up for.”
He finally looks at you then, like he’s daring you to leave.
“Still think I’m what you want?”
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you cross the room.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His eyes widen a fraction as you stop in front of him.
“Bucky,” you say softly, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, “I waited for you.”
His breath hitches.
“I didn’t wait for an arm,” you continue. “Or for some perfect version of you that never existed in the first place.”
His gaze flickers, uncertain. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Your thumbs brush gently over his cheeks. “You think this makes you a burden? That loving you is suddenly harder because of this?”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
You step closer, until there’s no space left between you.
“Loving you has never been easy, James,” you whisper, a small, sad smile tugging at your lips. “You’re stubborn. You’re infuriating. You get into trouble like it’s your full-time job.”
A faint, disbelieving huff of laughter escapes him.
“But you’re also you,” you say. “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
His eyes search yours, desperate, like he’s looking for the catch. “Even like this?”
You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.
“Especially like this.”
For a second, he just stands there.
Then something in him cracks.
His remaining arm wraps around you, pulling you in tight—like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.
You cling right back.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur against his shoulder.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he whispers, voice breaking just a little.
Marcus knows his role on his team: he’s the one who carries the gun, makes the hard calls - and takes the hits. He has no time or patience for anyone or anything else. But when Jake - a brand-new recruit Marcus has been tasked with training - messes up on his first mission and gets them both captured, nothing could prepare Marcus for the way his world quickly spirals out of control.
AO3
Masterlist
This is a series. Start here, continued from here.
Levy: (historical) the act of enlisting someone for military service
Contents: aftermath of torture, comfort, broken bones, cuddling, angst, prosthetic limb, past noncon, discussion of STD testing, head injury
~
Slowly, Jake settled in Marcus’s arms, head tucked under Marcus’s chin, his broken arm carefully cradled between them. His cycling pleas faded into whimpers, which faded into silence. Then, like he had done several times before while wrapped in Marcus’s embrace, his body relaxed – in stages, then all at once. His breath was warm against Marcus’s neck. His hair tickled the underside of Marcus’s chin. His fingers relaxed their hold on Marcus’s shirt and slipped from their weak grip.
Marcus lay like that with Jake – cradling his sleeping form, listening to the steady whoosh of his breathing, free from pain – for a long time. He melted at the feeling of Jake’s body heat, the weight of Jake in his arms. It was a sweet sort of pain – fingers pushed into a wound, to stop the bleeding. Now that he had his Jake back in his arms, he couldn’t believe he’d been able to breathe without him. He’d been without Jake for six weeks.
He’d thought Jake might be dead for six weeks.
The light in the small room changed with the passing minutes. Sunbeams crawled along the wall.
Sometime in the afternoon, Lars knocked softly. Marcus raised his head as they entered, carrying a fresh bag of fluids, a few bottles of water, and some snacks. They set the water and snacks on the nightstand. They took the long-empty bag of fluids off the wall and exchanged it for a fresh bag.
“How’s he doing?” they whispered.
Marcus pulled back so he could see Jake’s face. Jake stirred briefly, eyelids fluttering before he fell beneath sleep’s surface once more. His lips were slightly parted, his face relaxed. He didn’t look like he was in any pain at all.
Marcus’s metal thumb gently traced along the edge of the bruises marring Jake’s cheek. Marcus only felt a distant tingling. The touch was too gentle for the sensors to properly register.
His heart ached, at that. He couldn’t feel the gentle touch Jake deserved. Not with that hand, at least.
“I think he’s okay,” Marcus rasped. “He’s…” His throat worked. “He’s not… screaming, so that’s good.”
Lars hung the fresh bag of fluids from the thumbtack pushed into the wall. “Sure, there’s that,” they said. They hesitated, then knelt beside the bed. They pulled the blanket back from Jake’s shoulder and peeked at the bandage covering the graze there. It was still clean; no blood had soaked through. They nodded, satisfied. To Marcus’s relief, they didn’t reach out and touch Jake any more than they already had.
He knew he had no right to tell them not to… but it still turned his stomach to see Jake being touched – even by Marcus himself – after everything that had been done to him.
As if Lars could read his mind, they said, “got some rapid results from the STD panel already.”
Marcus swallowed tightly. “And?”
“Rapid for syphilis and hep C are negative. We’re doing the full tests for those, too, but I put as many rapid tests through as we have available. I wanted him – both of you – to know as soon as possible.” Lars stared at the blanket as they said everything.
“How many more are there?” he said helplessly.
“A few,” Lars said. “Hep B, chlamydia, herpes, gonorrhea, trichomoniasis, HPV, herpes. And HIV. I—”
“You tested him for… for all of that?” Marcus rasped.
Lars nodded, their eyes still fixed on the blanket. “Yup. About half from his blood, and half from that swab.”
“And are they… treatable?” Marcus’s breaths were speeding up. Jake couldn’t be sick, not after everything, he couldn’t be sick after everything…
“Pretty much all of them, yeah,” Lars said. “There’s some kind of treatment for all of them. The ones I’m most concerned about are hep B and HIV. Both viruses. They both kinda… attack the body in different ways. There are treatments, but they can be… hard to get ahold of. Especially if you’re off the grid.”
Marcus’s panic sharpened. “And when will we know?” he breathed.
“For the hep B? A few days at most. For the HIV I’m going to have to keep doing blood tests for the next few weeks. And get him prophylactic medication. Celeste is working on getting her hands on some. If he was exposed, and we catch it early, it can keep him from getting it. If—”
“He doesn’t have HIV,” Marcus said through numb lips. “He can’t.”
Jake stirred in Marcus’s arms. Marcus’s mouth snapped shut, and he cradled Jake gently, staring at Lars with helpless desperation. Lars finally met his eyes over Jake. They looked exhausted.
“M-Marcus?” Jake croaked.
“I’m here,” Marcus whispered, pressing his lips to Jake’s forehead. He braced for the cycle of words to begin again, for the fear, for the pain.
He felt Jake’s forehead wrinkle against his lips. “Wha’s going on?” Jake said weakly. He curled closer to Marcus, fingers twisting in his shirt. “Head feels… bad.”
“You dizzy?” Lars said, leaning closer.
Jake nodded. “Mm hm. Eyes… hurt.”
“Is it the light?” Lars said.
Another nod. “Mm hm. Hurts.” His voice sounded fuzzy, like he was half-asleep. Lars didn’t look worried, though, so Marcus forced himself to relax.
Lars nodded. “Okay. That’s okay, you’ve still got a concussion, Jake. I can close the curtains. It’ll help if you just lie still in the dark and rest. That’s the best thing for you, now. How’s the pain? Do you need anything? You hungry?”
He shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “A little… nauseous.”
“Okay. We’ll try food later. It would be good if you would eat before you sleep tonight. I’ll come and check on you in a few hours, okay?” They got to their feet and shrugged. “Marcus, you good? You need anything?”
Marcus’s mouth hardened. He’d never been tested for anything, not once. The thought hadn’t even entered his mind. The times he’d been fucked – the rapes – they existed in a separate place in his head, a separate time, almost in a separate body. He remembered the pain. He remembered the humiliation. But the idea that he might have something in him – something in his blood – from what the men had done to him? From what Aisha had done to him?
He couldn’t scrub his skin hard enough to rid himself of that. He couldn’t scrape his flesh from his bones. He couldn’t clean himself hard enough to clean his blood of that poison.
He swallowed hard. “Another testing kit,” he rasped. “You need to… to test me.”
He watched their face. He watched for the flicker of confusion – or of disgust.
Underneath all of that, he was watching for interest.
He saw none of that. Lars’s face stayed perfectly even, if a little drawn with exhaustion. They gave another nod. “You got it,” they said. “You good with having your blood drawn as part of it?”
“Yeah,” he said, shivering with a sudden chill. “That’s… that’s fine.”
“Alright. I’ll come back once I have the kit. Holler if you need anything.” They closed the curtains, then turned and left.
Tears stung in Marcus’s eyes as he nosed against Jake’s forehead. Jake groaned softly and tilted his head back, as if searching for something. “Marcus,” he whispered.
“Here,” Marcus said. “Still here.”
“Love you,” Jake said – so simply. So perfectly.
The tears spilled over. “Love you, too, Jake. More than…” Marcus’s throat closed. He couldn’t finish what he was about to say.
More than anything. More than my life. More than I thought it was possible for me to love.
Jake sighed in his arms and drifted again, body relaxing in stages, then all at once. Marcus tangled their legs together once more, drawing himself as close as physically possible. His skin ached wherever it wasn’t touching Jake. He accepted that pain gladly, because Jake heaved a sigh in his arms – solidly here. Solidly alive. Solidly safe.
Beneath Gunmetal Skies continues in Book 2
If you want to be on the taglist (including for the spicy chapters,) let me know! I only tag people in 18+ chapters if I know they are adults through conversations or if their age/age range is in their bio.
Here are my humanised/pre-Circus versions of the main performers, along with Queenie, Kaufmo, Caine and my OC Nyat.
Pomni is Ra-on, with her Americanised name being Pamela. She's Korean-American, autistic and has anxiety.
Ragatha is Rachel. She is British, autistic and has PTSD and a severely damaged eye. She still has some vision in it, but the eye is so jacked up that she keeps it shut to avoid scaring people.
Jax is Fernando. He is Latino and autistic.
Gangle is Mariko. She is Asian-American, specifically Japanese, autistic and has anxiety.
Kinger is Lewis. He is Italian, autistic and has a lazy eye.
Queenie is Amara. She is African-American, autistic and has endometriosis.
Zooble is Umi. They are Eastern-African-American, autistic, and have a prosthetic arm (and leg, but you can't see it), elbow brace and BDD.
Kaufmo is Malo. He is French, autistic and has possible psychosis.
Nyat is... Nathan. She is a closeted trans woman, English-Australian, working as a courier and autistic. She does later come out and change her name to Natalie.
I don't know if Caine would have a different name if he was human, but he's mixed-race (Black Italian), autistic and has vitiligo!
I might create some designs for Ribbit and the other performers (and Bubble and Gummigoo) after the finale, but who knows!
Because twitter is a hell space and I rarely use it, here's a little snippet of what I've been working on for my prequal series for Professor Neil :)
October 21, 2008 (Tuesday)
Neil sat at his preferred table looking over the German pages from last week. Andrew was slumped in his seat across the table, pen loose in his hand as he worked. Neil had procured a workbook from one of the German professors on campus. At the rate Andrew was going, Neil would need to find something else, fast.
Without noticing, Neil chewed on his thumbnail. It didn’t escape his notice that Babe Ruth had taken up a position that was further from Neil’s feet than normal. He was occasionally sniffing the air in hopes that Andrew had more treats.
Andrew didn’t glance up from his work. “What’s with the dog?”
Neil dropped his thumb to his lap. “I’ve only got one leg.”
Hazel eyes met his and Neil held back at smirk. No doubt Andrew was fighting against looking under the table to see if his words were true. Every time Andrew had arrived, Neil had already been seated at the table. To Neil’s knowledge, they’d never crossed paths on campus either. Andrew turned back to the work that was easily nearing completion.
Neil hummed. “How long have you been learning German?”
“Is this an interrogation?” Andrew questioned back.
Shrugging, Neil rested an elbow on the table. “Believe it or not, most tutor relationships tend to be fairly friendly.”
Andrew sighed quietly. “High school, flunked out the second course.”
That was either bullshit or Andrew hadn’t cared to do the work. Either was plausible but Neil didn’t have a legal way to check records that far back. From the work Andrew did last week it was obvious that he had a good grasp on the language. He didn’t have issues with tense changes from the workbook questions. Neil had been out of practice of the language for a few years and took some time to think over his next words.
