Archive of Our Own

Steve can never guess which things are gonna be easy for Bucky, and which are gonna be tough.

Bucky can carry on perfectly charming and mundane small talk in any number of languages with perfect strangers - something Steve has enough trouble with in his native language. But sometimes there’s something simple that Bucky just has - well… some trouble with.

(Putting aside the tendency to zone out and then suddenly react to stimuli with violence, putting aside the decades of brainwashing and brain damage, putting aside his penchant for running off in fear from his existing connections and getting in trouble with governing forces around the globe.)

For example, there’s the thing with setting stuff down in front of Bucky.

Picture this for a second:

So they’ve been traveling ever since Steve found Bucky, trying to stay under the radar while Natasha sorts things out with the numerous international government agencies who’d like to have Bucky’s head on a pike as a scapegoat. And one morning in their most recent safe house, this real nice vacation home they’ve been at for the last week, Steve goes to put out the fixings for oatmeal out and -

Well, there’s Bucky, dark eyed and skulking in the early morning light seeping through the window. There’s Steve smiling at Bucky. There’s Bucky, picking up the oats that Steve sets down - and Steve’s not thinking hard about it, just thinks Bucky might be reading the packaging. Might want something to do with his hands.

(He vacillates between an unnatural stillness that reminds Steve of the handful of times he’d hunkered down in Bucky’s sniper’s nests during the war, and a manic sort of activity. During the latter, he’s always scratching at his stubble or picking at peeling paint or - memorably - picking stray hairs off Steve’s coat and neck until he’d accidentally plucked one of Steve’s still attached ones.)

“Hey,” Steve says.

He gets a grunt in response.

Steve sets down a jar of cinnamon; Bucky picks that up, too.

Cloves, nutmeg, almonds, honey, milk - Steve looks from the blank counter to Bucky, pockets stuffed with spices, the crook of his right arm cradling oats and milk.

Steve stares at Bucky. Bucky stares back.

Steve isn’t sure what the preferred way to broach this subject is. How to ask if Bucky’s fucking with him or having another one of his moments.

“You thinking about oatmeal for breakfast, too?” he finally asks.

Bucky’s brow furrows, like maybe there’s a trick here. “…You put them down,” he says slowly, like Steve’s dumber than a sack of bricks.

Steve doesn’t know how to respond. He pauses to think of a response, but Bucky’s already continuing, low grumble getting a little agitated. “I thought you wanted me to…“

Steve blinks, “… to what?”

Bucky’s frown deepens.

“You set them out for me?” Bucky asks, starting out sure and irritated and ending somewhere closer to confused and uncertain.

And well, it turns out that Bucky sees items being set down by people he’s ‘working with’ as a direction to take the items, as long as they’re paying attention to him.

Alright.

After a somewhat awkward conversation Bucky tries to remember that not everything Steve does pertains to directions towards Bucky; Steve tries to pretend not to notice when he’s talking to Bucky about some insipid shit, and he sets his wallet down, and there goes Bucky’s hand twitching to pick it up before burying deep in his pocket.

There’s a lot of crossed wires in there and the more comfortable they become with each other, the more Bucky seems to trip over them with Steve.

On one hand, Steve’s pretty sure it means that Bucky is no longer seeing him as a civilian to be kept at a distance.

On the other, he’s pretty sure the new category he’s been put in isn’t exactly ‘friend’ so much as - well. Bile rises at the thought of ‘handler’ or ‘agent’, but he can handle ‘ally’ for now.

It’s better than it was, at least.

Steve’s even pretty pleased about the hair plucking incident, because for so long Bucky and him had just circled around each other nervously. Never really touching aside from the occasional wet-eyed pat on the shoulder when things had gotten a little too maudlin. Steve had never been great at reaching out physically and Bucky is… more guarded these days. So maybe Steve holds the memory close to his heart - the way his skin had jumped when Bucky’d reached over and started picking hairs off his coat, the way Steve had held so still to let it happen, the way Bucky had plucked the hair from the nape of his neck and when Steve gave a small grunt and turned towards him, Bucky had been staring down at the displaced follicle in his hand with a look of horror and -

It’s getting better, is all. It’s even kinda funny, sometimes. They have laughs, even. Sometimes.

And Bucky seems to be trying so hard to make it easier, and Steve - Steve knows he’s fucking up on his end half the damn time but he’s trying, too. And he tries not to ask for anything - because that’s never been his nature, never been the way it was between the two of them. But Hell if it doesn’t feel good every time Bucky slinks close enough to tug at his sleeve for his attention, or passes Steve the last ration on a week long slog over a mountainous border. Every small kindness between them feels like a benediction.

And maybe Bucky makes assumptions about what Steve’s trying to communicate sometimes. Maybe Steve finds Bucky’s actions fucking inscrutable at times.

Sometimes it’s hard to see the thin line between something Bucky knows and something Bucky thinks he knows.

~ ~ ~

Memories are difficult.

Some days, he can’t handle the way they bleed into each other, confusing and ever-changing. He had had left DC a wounded animal. He had thought distance would help him establish the next step.

(Hoping he’d either be able to dump the memories of the man he’d been on the roadside like unwanted furniture, or finally understand enough about the guy to feel like maybe he could be him.)

That had been a bit of a bust.

Bucky would like it if all his memories were neat, crisp puzzle pieces that fit into each other as soon as they came trickling in.

More realistically, he’ll be going about his incredibly normal on-the-lam-from-all-sorts day and get hit sideways with the memory of the smell of laundry starch and spend 5 minutes gesticulating to Steve, trying to explain what the fuck is going through his head - the strange memory of burying his fingers in crisp cotton and his mothers skirts swishing beside his head. As if Steve can fill in the blanks anymore than Bucky, most of the time.

More realistically, he’ll be going about his assassin of the century life, get that feeling like he’s left the oven on, realize the face he’s pummeling means more to him than his own fucking bones and want to vomit. It’s only happened the once, but it leaves a bit of a mark on a guy.

Like the ones he’d left on Steve. Ha.

Memories. He can remember the exact feeling of Steve’s bony shoulder digging into the arm he’d slung around it, the taste of his family’s apartment - but yesterday he had to ask Steve which of his sisters had curly hair.

Steve likes to try to comfort him and tell him that no memories are entirely easy and crisp and clean. That even before Bucky lost an arm and a century, they used to disagree on the basic facts of their shared history all the time.

Steve probably likes to explain this shit because Bucky once went silent for a day when Steve had corrected him on the name of his boss at some clerking job he’d had before everything. He hadn’t meant to worry Steve, but it was so easy to spend time turning over these memories, trying to understand which are real and which aren’t - sometimes he forgets the day to day process he has to upkeep.

Steve tries so hard to give Bucky all the space he needs. Tries so hard to be there when Bucky can swallow his distrust enough to let him. Bucky can see the way it strains at the guy, has no clue how to throw him a bone, to say, “good job on not giving up.” To do anything to indicate it’s not all worthless effort.

The messy memories make him doubt. When he starts chewing on the edge of a few memories and some things come tumbling out - he worries that he’s got it wrong, that Steve’s going to be very, very gentle when he corrects Bucky.

Sitting on a sofa in Beirut and listening to some young girl who thinks she’s Fairouz on the radio, he swallows his own initial reaction - his own need to flee - and he bites the fucking bullet.

“When we were younger,” Bucky starts slowly. He’s leant forward, arms propped on his knees, hair hiding his face futilely. He likes the warm pocket it creates. His right forearm prickles with the heat. He can feel plates shifting in the other, tellingly.

Steve looks back at him with that placid expression he spends so much time practicing on Bucky - trying so hard not to have any reaction, probably.

Bucky’s the one who reacts badly (metal digits wrapped around an arm or throat and - ) and yet Steve’s the one who keeps limiting his own response. Bucky can appreciate it, even as he sees the inefficiency of the gesture.

“We were - “ the thing is, he’s pretty sure even before his brain got scrambled the whole thing was a confusing mess. “- something.” His face pinches, because that’s nowhere near what he meant to say. Sounds so ridiculous, like a dramatic chord should play over it - some radio play with a longlost someone or other coming out of the woodwork to mess things up a little for a few weeks. The harder he thinks on this, the more his words seem to be drying up.

Heat makes Steve kind of a bastard in a fun way, Bucky’s noticed, and instead of calmly trying to help Bucky tease out the meaning in his thoughts like usual, he just smiles crookedly and says, “yeah, people were always saying that. ‘Steve and Bucky: they sure are something, alright.’” He says it with a faux-disapproving voice, making an exaggerated frown.

“I mean,” Bucky says, his own mouth twisting into a smile despite himself. It’s that heady mirror-expression response he’s still surprised by every time Steve inspires it in him. “We were more than friends. Or - we spent a lot of time trying not to be more than friends.”

He’d thought about just saying it smooth like he remembers being, sometimes - saying something like, ‘we were always two sly glances away from kissing, but we never were making them at the same time and I need to know whether this is my brain telling fibs again, or whether it was real.’ Or something blunt and harsh like, ‘I’ve put holes in your body but I’ve never filled one - and isn’t that a shame, after all this time?’

But Bucky doesn’t know from smooth these days, and he still has a hard time figuring out where the line is for blunt. Still doesn’t know the difference between a blue joke that’ll get a smirk from Steve and something terrible that’ll come slipping out of his mouth - ostensibly humorous - and get that horrified look going in Steve’s eyes.

( Steve had joked that they’d better not go through security if they didn’t want to get frisked, eyeing Bucky’s arm in a rare moment of candid joking. Bucky had been flying high on the camaraderie and joked back that he was used to invasive measures, and if they needed him to bend over he’d be able to oblige. It hadn’t seemed like a bad thing to say at the time, but Steve had looked uncomfortable afterwards and then they’d stopped joking. This often seemed to happen whenever Bucky opened his fucking mouth. )

So he intimates it, this time. Real fuckin’ subtle like. Just askin’ if they’d been more - nothing graphic or anything.

Steve gets solemn, the way he does when - well, all the fucking time if Bucky’s honest. He can’t ask about pigeons without risking a serious-eyed Steve telling him some new horrible truth about the world.

(Don’t ask about Steve’s opinions on pigeon-poisoning, it’s just - don’t. The guy finds a way to care too much about everything. Bucky suspects this might be becoming one of his favorite things about Steve, ‘cause he can’t stop asking him about things he’s just remembered or found out about, and always gets a little excited when Steve takes that deep breath and starts in on it. )

“Yeah,” Steve says, kind of quiet-like as he shifts his gaze down to Bucky’s hands, folded together between his knees. Bucky feels like he’s incapable of blinking in this moment, so intently is he watching Steve’s face. The expression is - conflicted to say the least. Bucky’s not always great at reading Steve’s emotions off his face, but he thinks this is somewhere between sad and fond.

“We always kind of danced around it,” one of his hands runs through his hair. “But yeah. I mean - we never said anything, and I don’t know how you felt.” Steve seems careful not to leave any questioning in those words. Bucky isn’t sure he would be as strong. He wants to know the details of exactly how Steve felt back then right fucking now, feels suddenly impatient for it, now that it’s on the table. “But I always knew I felt like that for you, and I thought you might have felt the same.”

“Why not?” Bucky blurts. “I mean - why wouldn’t we?” He does technically realize that the more things he runs into about his past, the more he remembers stuff about those specific things - that the reason everything feels so wrapped up in Steve Rogers is probably more the fact that every emotional upheaval since getting his memory back has been intrinsically tied with Steve. But the thing is, it’s really hard to separate that knowledge from the fact that most of his feelings and memories are so laced through with Steve, he almost can’t imagine the kind of thing that would have kept him from just saying something at some point. Couldn’t imagine knowing Steve and not realizing Steve liked him a little, couldn’t imagine not liking him back. Couldn’t imagine wrapping himself in Steve the way everything else in his mind is wrapped in him.

Steve’s face that Bucky’s watching so hawkishly - well, his mouth twists a little. “Like I said, I don’t know how you felt. I just… knew it would be easier that way. I knew I wanted you anyway I could have you, and I wasn’t going to ask you to give up any more for our friendship. I never wanted you to feel like you had to make a decision that would affect you and your family that way.”

‘Give up any more’. Bucky remembers some things. Little flashes of anger and sulking. The way everyone knew about Steve Rogers, even if he’d never been caught doing nothing. Even if he’d never even said anything to Bucky about it. Some people didn’t believe it, sure, but Bucky remembered enough to remember the fucking helpless anger he’d felt that people seemed to think Steve Rogers could ever drag Bucky down. The way people acted like Steve was sapping away at the good parts of Bucky Barnes, when everything he remembers seems to point to the opposite.

Bucky feels a little sick. Wishes he could promise it wasn’t like that at all, wants to believe Bucky Barnes wasn’t that much of a selfish fuck. Doesn’t honestly know if he’d ever asked himself that tough question and decided it wasn’t worth turning over that stone.

“Nothing is easier right now,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t even realize he’s trying to imply a sequence of variables, that he’s apparently already decided the best course of action in his head.

Steve opens his mouth, but just shrugs helplessly. “Yeah,” he says after a second, “not really.” He laughs a little.

“All I have is you,” Bucky doesn’t realize he’s trying on persuasion for size until the words are out of his mouth, just this side of beseeching. “I don’t give a fuck if people don’t like it. I’ve done a hell of lot worse. Most things I do, people don’t like. Do you? Like it, I mean? Still?”

He’s so used to the homegrown narrative of Steve clinging to the past and Bucky being the one to awkwardly try to convince him everything’s changed - the sudden option of Steve having moved on while he still - or perhaps newly, he can’t really tell anymore - wants to bury himself in Steve’s skin for the rest of existence? It burns and coils in his stomach, horrible and maybe a little inevitable with the way he is now.

Steve’s face is distraught, but Bucky can’t unravel it past that information. He’s meeting Bucky’s eyes now. “I do. Always have. But I think it might be a bad idea.”

Despite the cautious, mournful tone, Bucky is suddenly elated. A bit of adrenaline shoots through him, makes him unable to keep his teeth from baring in a smile. Okay, yeah. Sure, they’re on the run from myriad dangerous forces. Sure, Bucky is several screws loose and Steve is barely any better, if the way he hangs around Bucky is any indication. Sure, Bucky has spent more of the last two years avoiding Steve out of cowardice and dread than wanting to drag Steve to some quiet corner of the universe where they could just listen to Faux-Fairouz or Bucky could pretend he still understands baseball more than half the time.

He can practically feel the soft, fleshy places in Steve’s resolve when he tells Bucky it’s probably not a good idea.

Bucky doesn’t remember much, but he knows you gotta cut Steve off before he can talk himself - and usually Bucky - into or out of something.

So he screws his courage to the sticking place and all that shit, and he leans in and kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth. And his skin prickles, but he doesn’t even feel like snapping Steve’s neck or nothing. In fact, when he thinks about how Steve’s positioned in relation to the door, the intrusive thoughts aren’t about how easily Bucky could take him down, they’re about how Bucky could move him to shield his body until another agent arrives to aid. Steve’s shifted from enemy target, to an important member of Bucky’s imaginary team.

Steve’s lip twists up under Bucky’s, probably against his own design. Steve smiles and so does Bucky and it’s real heartwarming, all around.

~ ~ ~

It’s not like all the bad shit goes away just because Bucky gets to make a few seconds of time with Steve - and by make time, Bucky means he’d tentatively pressed face bits to Steve’s face bits for about a second before sitting back and reveling in it with a huge smirk until Steve hit his arm and absconded to go look for some of that rice pudding he’s in love with, face beet-red. They still expend most of their energy just keeping under the radar. They still circle each other warily more often than not.

The funny thing is, it really barely changes anything. It’s not like they start rolling in the sack as soon as Bucky breaks the seal on the thing.

…I mean, he was kinda thinking maybe more would happen, actually. Half dreading his own response, whether he’d be able to handle it, or whether his brain would flip a switch the way it does sometimes, and he’d find himself with his hand pressing into Steve’s windpipe as Steve’s toothbrush clatters to floor and spittle and minty paste dribbles out of Steve’s pink mouth. Half anticipating the feeling of fingertips digging into his skin, the exciting rush of flesh on flesh on -

Steve smiles at him, gives him these cow eyed looks sometimes, leans slight degrees towards Bucky when they’re standing side by side - but he still doesn’t touch Bucky first, the way they’ve established since Steve came to help him find deeper cover a couple months ago.

It’s… It honestly makes Bucky feel a little soft over Steve. That whatever they’re fumbling their way towards, Steve’s letting Bucky hold all the cards.

(All because his brain’s too fucked up to react to things like a god damn human being.)

He’s letting Bucky handle things.

After a few days of fear and adrenaline giving way to cautious optimism, it gives Bucky the confidence to do things like tug on Steve’s hair when he feels like it, to pull him in and press a biting kiss to his lips until he tastes iron. Steve is cautious in his returning affection, always waiting for Bucky to start things, never grabbing onto Bucky - just pressing back after a beat.

It’s nothing like the first few days of Steve coming to his ‘aid’ and trying to help him stay undercover with his contacts. Bucky’s stopped flinching when Steve gets near, knows Steve wont -

At any rate, s’good.

~ ~ ~

Steve’s always been someone who reaches for pipedreams, while knowing he’s more liable to slip and fall than get a good grip on them. So he lets it happen, despite the alarms going off in his head. He trusts that they love each other enough to try to muddle their way through without damaging each other for good.

He lets himself enjoy the tight feeling in his chest - half guilt, half euphoria.

He breaths in the smell of Bucky, who gives him a twisted smile when he leans in close and bites bruises onto Steve’s jawline. They can barely hug without setting each other’s nerves off in a not-good way, but Bucky will dart forward to do this to Steve. It drives him insane. He feels like he could hurl. He can’t stop smiling, sometimes.

They move to the next drop off point based on the signal left in a small student’s paper in Berlin, pick up the newest message from Natasha.

Three weeks after Bucky laid a chaste kiss on Steve’s mouth and looked like the cat that got the cream, there’s been some changes. In private, when they’ve sloughed off whatever identity they’re playing at now, Bucky will sometimes just sort of - Steve can’t think of a better way to describe it than paw at Steve. His fingers dipping into Steve’s mouth to feel at Steve’s teeth, or sliding in the shell of his ear, or dipping to pinch his nipple viciously - all while Bucky speaks in low, casual tones about whatever has caught his attention that day.

Steve never knows what to say or do about it. He simply stills, almost afraid Bucky will stop touching him completely if he squirms away from the invasive fingers toying with his armpit hair. He can’t wait for those moments when Bucky seems to treat his body like a doll, almost can’t believe he’s managed to sit through them, either. His skin feels so sensitive to the touches - unused to the intimacy except from the cursory touches of medical personnel or the harsh touch of a combatant.

Though… Sometimes Bucky can be a little harsh - even a little vicious - with his touches. He’d been conversationally explaining the train systems in Croatia to Steve when he’d slowly, meticulously dug his fingers into Steve’s wrists so hard that Steve had had bruises up and down his forearms for three days before he’d healed.

To be honest, Steve likes it. The urgency of it. He’s always liked the moment where you feel like you’re on the precipice. The rush of his blood, fear and anticipation - how much will Bucky touch him today? Will he feel the line of his dick through their clothes when Bucky crowds up close behind him? Will Bucky's palm slide down his thigh? Will he feel the hard pinch of metal fingers on his waist? Will Steve get to kiss him, or taste the tang of fingertips that have touched a number of things that day?

So when Bucky bends him over the latest in a long line of temporary sleeping arrangements, when Steve smells him, hears and feels the small pants of breaths against his neck - he’s feeling pretty fucking good about things. He’s worried - but he’s always worried, isn’t he? And it’s just - so good and new and he’s terrified and so excited because here’s something good among the unceasing shit-show of everything.

There’s the slide of his boxers down his thighs, there’s Bucky’s cock nudging up behind his balls, there’s the breathy, “Bucky” he lets out -

And there’s the metal hand tight around his neck, Bucky firmly telling him, “shut up,” and the sound of spitting and Bucky’s flesh hand spreading Steve’s ass wide and the press - Steve is terrified that he’s set Bucky off, but it’s not as violent as Bucky usually is when gets like -

It hurts. It hurts decently so, even if it’s nowhere near the worst pain he’s ever had. Steve almost wants to laugh because it seems so incongruous to the scene he’s been building in his head. Bucky’s dick is pressing into him with scant spit to slick the way and something tears at the friction and it hurts but more than anything Steve’s just shocked. A part of him is waiting for Bucky to realize what’s happening, what he’s doing wrong.

Bucky fucks him raw over a musty mattress in a cheap hotel in Italy. Steve holds onto the sheets and doesn’t tell Bucky to stop. What if the moment he tells Bucky it hurts, Bucky jumps away like he’s been burned? Visions pass through Steve’s mind of Bucky refusing to touch him, of weeks of avoidance.

It’s okay, they’ll fix it next time.

Despite himself, despite the painful scrape of his cock on the rough sheets, the feeling of torn skin in his ass - fissures, he notes, distantly - he’s hard. His cock is dribbling on the sheets.

Bucky speaks lowly in his ear, “you’re a good hole, aren’t you?” and Steve’s stomach turns, but sometimes Bucky says shit that isn’t quite right, so he doesn’t say anything.

(The metal fingers around his neck are a little prohibitive, if he's honest.)

He quivers, frozen in indecision between throwing Bucky off, saying something, or just - just letting things go.

But eventually he does - he lets the excitement and pain take him over the edge of the moment of questioning and he says nothing.

He shudders when Bucky wriggles a hand under him and strokes him off roughly. He comes - gasping - into the mattress. He feels a bit like he’s been plunged underwater, like he can’t get enough air.

He barely responds when Bucky pulls out and kneels on the bed by Steve’s head.

“Clean it off,” Bucky says, low and quiet.

Steve notes there’s come and blood on the dick in front of him when he sucks it clean. He notes that it doesn’t taste much like ass, at least. His head is white noise.

His own cock is sore and chafes against the sheets.

Bucky smiles, strokes his hair. Bucky disappears, the shower turns on.

Steve thinks about how next time will be better. About how some things are just always a little awkward with Bucky these days.

(About how he'd thought it might go, about how his hands had been gentle on Bucky, cautious. About how there’s a wet spot in the sheets below him that he needs to spot treat for the sake of whoever will clean up after they check out.)

He reaches back, slides a finger around the tender rim of his rectum, brings it close to his face, and toys with the tacky red-tinted come between his fingertips.

~ ~ ~

In the weeks after that first tentative kiss, Bucky is on air.

For so long, Bucky had lived on the idea of survival. Of just trying to be alive, to be a human - or hell, anything - instead of a weapon. He’d shied away from the idea of meeting Steve, despite the vague, hollow craving to understand who the fuck Steve was to him. When his memories had first started lining up he’d thought he might aspire to be Bucky Barnes, to swoop in - debonaire and witty - able to show Steve that he could be him. It had only taken a few months to realize that wasn’t going to happen. It had poked a pinhole in his idle daydreams. After that, he’d clutched at the vestiges of his memories and tried to salvage something from it - too stubborn to give in and be the asset, too afraid to be a real human.

It’s weird to actually want something. Something beyond a sort of vindictive desire to be something more than they'd made him. To ask for it.

He’s so fucking grateful to Steve for allowing him to desire something, to want him back, to let Bucky take things at his own pace - in his sappier moments, he aches for how much Steve means to him. Not just for being the guy who gave him back himself, the guy who reminded him that he had been something more - but for being the guy who would patiently stand by while Bucky figured out what the fuck he wanted, now.

For letting Bucky touch him, despite the fucked up things his hands have done. To touch the intimate parts of Steve, to spread him out like a patient on a table while Bucky examines every inch of him.

And there's the thing, isn't it? Bucky had kissed Steve and felt the bottom drop out of his world, had waited for things to get beyond him, had waited to feel pulled under - but it hadn't happened. Steve would risk a soft hand on his shoulder, or a tentative kiss on the cheek - but he was letting Bucky take the lead.

Everything Bucky had dreaded turns out to be so easy. And it's not - he's never gonna say Steve is perfect, they bicker and argue and piss each other off - but it's so much easier not to fuck up, with Steve.

That first night - when he feels the hot, wet clutch of Steve’s insides around him - it feels like a kindness. It hurts how much trust it shows. Bucky knows that as far back as he can remember, he’s always been shit at opening himself to this. Likes that Steve will do it for him. Likes that he’s not worried about spreading himself out for Steve and having a bad reaction, the way he sometimes does. The way he often did. Likes the way it feels to take Steve apart, to have his come run out over Bucky’s fingers.

He worries the entire time that he’ll fuck it up, see something else - someone else - instead of Steve beneath him. When Steve messes up a little - the way Bucky sometimes used to - and starts to talk, Bucky’s heart pounds so hard he thinks he might die. But he gets them back on task, gets things smoothed out. Keeps it going the way it’s supposed to. He knows there’s no one here to - to punish Steve if he gets it wrong, but the idea makes Bucky terrified, never the less. He’s so grateful that Steve is so much better at this than Bucky ever was.

He’s so grateful that in this, Steve keeps it together better than Bucky could.

~ ~ ~

Things are alright. Maybe it sets Steve’s nerves prickling sometimes now when Bucky grabs onto him, fingers closing rough around the back of his neck. When they’re so hesitant to touch until the moment Bucky’s got his hand around Steve’s ankle on the couch and Steve tenses for a second, forces himself to melt under the rough grind of metal thumb along the arch of his foot.

Because it’s not Bucky’s fault he doesn’t know how to do things, anymore. It’s not his fault that he’s kind of shit at it these days.

Steve thinks that sometime, he’ll have a good talk with Bucky about being a bit more careful. Maybe checking in. But shame and pride rankle at the idea of telling Bucky to be more gentle, and it’s not like it’s harming anything, right? And that's nothing to the ever present guilt that is almost assuaged by giving Bucky anything he wants.

It’s just how they are now.

Steve is alright with it until he isn’t.

Until Bucky comes into his room in the latest place - a ranch style rental in San Diego - and pushes Steve back onto the bed.

No, okay, it’s not then, actually. Steve’s fine, even if his heart is in his throat - excitement and dread all muddled up. He’s fine when Bucky tugs his shirt over his head, material scraping rough on Steve’s chin, feeling across his abdomen with light fingers. Fine when Bucky pulls his sleep pants and underwear off, and wraps his right hand, rough and dry around Steve's stiffening dick. He might feel pinned under Bucky's almost disinterested examination, but there’s that edge of anticipation. Back to the precipice, again.

"Buck, hey, maybe ease off a little," Steve says before he’s quite aware, trying to inject more humor into his voice than he feels. Steve puts a hand over Bucky’s, Bucky’s brow furrows slightly as he removes it with his metal hand and sets it on the bed.

“I don’t want - “ Steve starts, is cut off when Bucky stills, body a tense line.

Bucky’s face goes from disinterested to stormy.

Steve feels adrenaline rushing into him, faithfully rising up when he’d rather it didn’t.

Bucky’s hand is almost painfully tight around him, Steve’s mouth is dry. He wishes he couldn’t feel his blood rushing, embarrassingly, to his cock.

“You like this,” Bucky says, real low, real confrontational. He tugs on Steve, rough and a little nasty. Steve doesn’t gasp, but his breath stops for a moment as he strains not to raise his hips into it.

“You can’t - “ Bucky says, voice raising, starting to sound a little shrill before going back to his low, firm tone, “- you like this. You don’t get to say you don’t.”

Steve has no clue what to say. His mind always seems to have a thousand plans at the ready, tactics for any circumstance, but it’s just a jumble right now. So he says nothing when Bucky strokes him dry and quick.

“Look at you,” Bucky eyes are wild, he’s staring Steve down. “You love this. Look at what you’re doing!” A fleck of spittle lands on Steve’s stomach with the vehemence Bucky barks that out; his stomach jumps.

Bucky’s leaning in over him now, metal hand pressing in up under Steve’s right knee. Steve lets himself get bent up double with his knee by his shoulder, his cock still getting roughly handled by Bucky’s ministrations. Steve swallows, puts his hand on Bucky’s plated wrist for a second, feels Bucky wrench away -

“You can’t pretend you don’t like this,” Bucky practically snarls, looking desperate. Looking maybe a little panicked under everything.

Everything in Steve tells him to lunge, to get out from under him; every part of him is going soft and numb under Bucky, instead.

Those metal fingers are at his hole, hard and unyielding. He thinks: funny how it’s easier than taking a dick. Funny how it’s so much more familiar, how he can bare down and think of rectal dilators and nozzles on enemas and -

“You’re made for it - don’t you fucking tell me to stop when you want it this bad, you want it so fucking bad you’re panting for it. Look at you, look at how bad you need it - “

It’s so much easier and more familiar until it’s two, three fingers - stretching and scrabbling at him and pressing hard enough on his prostate it hurts, feels like he’s gonna go over all swollen and bruised inside. Hard enough he’s leaking out of his chafed cock with every press of shifting metal.

It feels good, and that’s almost the worst part.

(The actual worst being that he wants so badly to grab onto Bucky, to anchor himself on him, but he’s too scared to do it. Too afraid Bucky would need to leave.)

It occurs to Steve that he’s making noises, that soft little sounds are being punched out of him.

And still, Bucky’s keeping up his mantra, telling Steve - pleading almost - that he likes it,

(Despite the sweat prickling his neck and the spit on his stomach, Steve can’t help but think about how dry it all is, how it drags.)

The funny thing is, there’s a moment where he’s utterly terrified Bucky will realize how much it hurts, where he feels more pain at the idea that Bucky will know than at the sore fissures he can feels splitting his ass.

When he comes, it feels like it’s been wrenched out of him against his will, he feels his ass clenching hard around Bucky’s fingers, bruising itself on them.

When he comes, Bucky doesn’t stop. Takes his hand off Steve’s shaft just long enough to tug his balls down from where they’re tight and spasming, vicious like. Strokes Steve’s hard and raw, and Steve’s just grateful for the come, for the way it gives some sort of slide to the movements, even though Bucky’s jabbing his thumb in Steve’s slit hard and he can feel his urethra stinging at the intrusion, feel sensitive skin scratch and tear a little at Bucky’s nail sliding in there.

But those metal fingers are still there, hard and stretching his loose hole. They’re deep and relentless, and he feels himself gasping now - and Bucky’s right hand is off his sore cock, still hard and drizzling over his stomach, that right hand is tracing the taught rim of his ass stretched around Bucky’s metal fingers, digging its rough little nails under that rim and stretching it awfully and tugging it over and -

There’s relief as the metal slides in further, as those come covered flesh fingers tug his rim efficiently over the unlubed metal, keeping the friction from pulling his rim inwards, giving it some blessed slick from his own come. He realizes Bucky is four fingers and a bit of palm deep in him only when he feels the thumb hooked up behind his balls.

It takes Bucky leaning forward and wiping his sticky fingers over Steve’s cheek - he’s whispering now, “look at you,” - and slipping a finger into Steve’s mouth, sliding the come and metallic tang of blood around his mouth - it takes all of that for Steve to realize there are tears starting to come out of his eyes, that his breaths are half-sobs. He’s not afraid, not really. Not sad, either. He has no fucking clue why he’s acting like this.

He despises himself in that moment, how weak he feels, crying and pinned on Bucky’s fingers. Loving it as much as Bucky is telling him to, hating the way his body is betraying him.

Bucky’s curled fingers are grinding into his prostate. His dick is still dribbling on his stomach. Bucky’s right hand goes back down and starts stroking him off again, slow and torturous on his tender cock.

Steve clutches his own knee up to his chest, clutches the sheets by his side. Is too fuckin’ chicken to grab onto Bucky, too scared that Bucky will leave over it.

“See?” Bucky sounds so much calmer now. Steve thinks absurdly that maybe he rammed all his panic up Steve’s ass, along with his prosthetic fingers, ‘cause Steve is sure as hell feeling both right about now. “See, I told you you wanted it,” Bucky is saying softly. He’s leaning in and biting the inside of Steve’s thigh. Steve clenches around those grinding, rocking digits, sobs as he comes again, shaking and wretched, a pitiful amount into his own pubic hair.

“You want it,” Bucky says again, laying bruising bites up and down Steve’s right inner thigh.

The words don’t stop, not when Steve’s dry sobbing and can’t stop himself from wracking his sore body with it, trying to hide his face in his left arm, upslung over his eyes. They don’t stop when Bucky slowly eases his fingers out of Steve’s tired, loose, swollen hole. And God, it seems so insane that they slips out so easily with the remains of his come when they hurt so bad going in - seems so insane that his organs don’t just fall right out with them. Steve’s instinctively clenching as if he’s afraid they’ll all tumble out -

The words don’t stop when Bucky smears his hand through the come on Steve’s stomach, or rubs the loose pucker of his ass, or strokes his hand over his own cock perfunctorily.

Steve feels the nudge of Bucky’s dick over his puffy hole - and God fucking help him he wants so bad for Bucky to just, to just do it - is relieved, is embarrassed, is upset a little when Bucky just grinds the top of his shaft over the swollen distention of his asshole. He bites into Steve’s neck, mean, as he grinds along Steve’s wrecked hole. Steve feels Bucky shudder as he draws back, feels the catch of Bucky’s cock tip on his rim, the way it tugs it down on the skin and pulls a bit of swollen skin out to expose it to the air, feels the splatter of come on his hole and tail bone. He thinks of spot treating sheets, immediately and with enough sudden energy to send his heart pounding.

After, Bucky lays there on him, lets their chests rub sweaty and sticky and slick together. Lets Steve’s right leg fall down and to their sides. Lets the ridge where his metal arm meets his flesh dig into Steve’s chest. Steve wonders if it’s intentional or incidental.

Bucky rolls off him eventually, his back a stiff line as he faces away from Steve, his clothes still on except for the open gape of the fly Steve can’t see anymore.

Steve reaches down and feels the hot, open, swollen bump of his hole, fumbles and pushes at it in an attempt to suss the damage, can’t help the instinctive bearing down that sends slick, membrane flesh sliding against his fingertips. Can’t help the twitch of his sore dick pulling at overused nerves at the thought that Bucky did this to him.

He doesn’t sleep for a long time. Bucky’s back is stiff, two feet away. Then again, it always is nowadays, what with how Bucky’s got all that metal running through his bones, keeping his shoulders from bending in soft and relaxed.

Steve doesn’t reach over.

~ ~ ~

Steve worries in an abstract way about how hot and swollen his hole feels when he curls up to sleep. Wonders how he'll try to hide it from Bucky if it's still like that, or if Bucky will be expecting it. Wonders what he thinks about that thought. But while he's tender in the morning and he feels bruised inside, there's no rectal lining puffing out of a gaping hole when he prods - just the normal tight pucker. All he has is the ache and the purplish color of his hole when he uses a hand mirror from his kit, and the slightly sore red slit of his cock, where Bucky had forced the tip of his finger - and even then he can't be certain. Can’t be certain his ass hasn’t always looked that color, that he’s not imagining the pain when he urinates.

When he wakes up, it’s just a bit before dawn. Can’t be more than six hours since Bucky fucked him open with his hand. The thought comes across idle and unemotional. Steve wonders with some sort of distant amusement if he’ll always be measuring time in this manner from now on. ‘An hour since Bucky fucked his ass bloody’; ‘a day since Bucky stretched his cockhole on his finger’; ‘a year since he bawled while impaled on Bucky’s hand, the first time’.

(Funny how he’d always been so sure that his asthma was real, back when half his doctors had told him it was just ‘nervous troubles’. Funny how he’s doubting himself now, can’t actually believe that it happened the way he remembers. )

There are already fading bruises on his right leg and his neck that remind him of the reality of things when he presses them - one after another, a long line of them. He likes the reminder when he looks in the mirror, when he looks down his body. It happened. It happened the way he remembers it, he's not being dramatic or - at any rate, he walks back into the bedroom, puts on the underwear lying on the floor.

Bucky steps into the room around noon, eyebrows tense, right hand trailing featherlight over the doorway as he passes. He’s wearing jeans and two layers of shirts. Steve feels the distance between yesterday’s boxers that he’s wearing, thrown on out of some absent minded need to cover up, and Bucky’s attire. He sort of wants to grab the sheets and swaddle himself like a shy maiden aunt, but he’s always been a stubborn asshole so he sits straight and doesn’t hunch around his bruised, naked torso.

Steve looks up at him, doesn't know what to think.

Bucky sits beside him on the edge of the bed, where Steve's been sitting since he took one look in the mirror after his morning piss and crawled back into their bedroom, tail tucked between his fucking legs.

"It's okay," Bucky says eventually, still staring at his hands, and God damn Steve for the tension that releases in him. God damn him for still thinking Bucky Barnes is gonna pull out a last second rescue like he always had, for relying on it.

"It wasn't your fault." It hits through Steve like a knife, the relief hurts that hard. It's not that simple, it's not - but it feels a bit like it might be.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to be… sorry or nothing,” Bucky says, and Steve is confused when Bucky draws him in with his right arm over Steve's shoulders. "You didn't mean to, I know. I used to do the same damn thing, all the time - worse, usually - but, I didn't think you might. You're better at this than me." He’s whispering, fierce and honest and sincere and Steve is pretty fucking confused.

He’s been so scared that Bucky would realize what was happening and run, he never considered that Bucky would just -

It hurts, Bucky forgiving him for this. Because a part of him thinks himself a bastard for what he’s done, for being the one without seventy years of having his head fucked with and still managing to lead them astray, but there’s an angrier part that wants to argue, wants Bucky to understand how wrong he is - that Steve hasn’t done anything to apologize for - but Steve’s not gonna fuckin’ do that to him, he wouldn’t -

He has no idea what to do, but he knows with visceral certainty that he has fucked up. He should have known better. Bucky obviously isn’t - he wasn’t ready, and Steve’s fucked it all up.

”It’s okay,” Bucky says. His voice is so soft, his hand so gentle where it rubs over Steve’s arm. It seems like it’d be so easy, like they should be okay. Like all Steve has to do is just make things Right, and it’ll all be something to laugh over or awkwardly dance around, like that time Bucky tried to punch his face in on a helicarrier.

And Hell, maybe Steve’s just not getting it. Maybe Bucky got set off by something he did, maybe if he just figures it out, they can be fine.

(Steve’s always preferred the fantasies where he has some margin of control over his situation.)

Bucky’s talking as he pushes Steve back down in bed, fingers slipping along his sides, dipping into the valleys of his hips, his muscles.

“You did so good,” Bucky says, and Steve wants to believe it, wishes Bucky didn’t sound fervent and unreliable in this moment. “You’re better at this than me.”

“Buck, I’m not trying to be better- “ and Bucky bites hard into his neck.

“Shh, don’t, it’s okay, don’t -“ Bucky is whispering into the sore flesh he just chomped, breath tingling over spit-cooling skin.

“Bucky -“ Steve wants to push him off, even as his leg comes up onto the bed, as Bucky straddles it. He feels the tight edge of embarrassment, anticipation, and guilt all coiling inside of him. He shouldn’t want to let things just go as much as he does.

“You’re better at being a fuckhole than me,” Bucky says sweetly, grinding down on Steve’s leg, jeans grinding against Steve’s bare skin. Steve goes cold. “Look at you, I could never lie back the way you do and take it. I was fucking awful at it. But you’re a good hole.” Bucky says it reverently, like he’s in awe of Steve.

Steve feels sick.

“Stop,” he says firmly, because he needs out of this room, now - just - he has to think for a moment and none of this is helping - Steve’s hands are pushing against Bucky’s shoulders and -

The moment he goes to stop him, Bucky goes tense all over. Steve takes a breath, body working on muscle memory, readying itself to dive out of the way. Bucky’s arm makes an alarmingly familiar whirring sound as the sensors recalibrate, as the plates shift, as Bucky tenses. Steve, like a fucking moron, feels himself go soft at the sound, go limp.

Bucky’s staring through him, wide eyed, breath coming quick.

“No,” is all Bucky growls when he grabs Steve’s wrists hard enough that something in his right one cracks alarmingly. He slams them into the bed, leans hard on Steve’s left. Bucky is panting when his metal hand closes over Steve’s neck, too fast for Steve to buck him off. It doesn’t - he doesn’t clench down hard enough to break anything, but he’s got a grip on Steve’s wind pipe fit to cut off the airflow.

Suddenly, the way Bucky had been looming over him, crowding him into the bed isn’t anything like the nervous edge of anticipation, instead it’s a sort of adrenaline-fueling obstacle. Steve wants to lash out.

Steve instinctively tries to grab onto Bucky’s wrist with his free hand, but something in his wrist is twanging and he gets as far as bracing his forearm against the shifting plates.

He can’t get the breath for the “Bucky” in his throat, can’t get the leverage to throw him off or to free his uninjured hand. Considers briefly all the ways he could go for Bucky’s head with his injured hand, the way Bucky is leaving himself wide open.

For as viciously as Bucky is keeping his windpipe closed, the thing that strikes him most is the terror on Bucky’s face.

Steve goes limp.

Bucky holds him there for several long minutes - minutes during which Steve struggles not to let the frantic, futile pumping of his lungs get to him. His eyes well up a little from the strain, leaving air-cooled wet lines down his temples. He ignores the throbbing in his free hand, tries not to think about what his options are if Bucky doesn’t -

After a while, Bucky eases back, taking in ragged breaths like he’s the one whose been getting choked. Steve takes in wispy breath, gulps around the hand still braced over his neck.

Steve’s spent the entire time watching Bucky’s wild-eyed, terrorized face. It’s a strange kind of sorrow, being held down like this, feeling weak and vulnerable and knowing whatever Bucky’s going through… wherever he is, it’s gotta be worse.

Eventually the anger fades from Bucky’s face, his eyes meet Steve’s. A furrow builds between his eyebrows. Steve can practically feel the dawning realization sink into Bucky, wishes he could save him from it.

“Shit,” Bucky hisses with feeling, swinging off Steve stiffly and standing up. He takes several steps back from the bed, crossing his arms. The left one ripples along with the tension in his body.

Steve slowly sits up again, tries not to be obvious as he lowers his hands into his lap and feels around the pain in his right one. He’s watching Bucky’s face, so he sees the way a helpless, sad look comes over as Bucky catches the movement.

Bucky rubs his right hand through his hair, all restless movement now that he’s out of whatever…state he’d been in. “Did I - are you okay? Is it broken?”

Steve can feel the little chip of fragmented bone that’s popped off his radius, but he’s had worse and he knows it will heal. “No, I’m fine.”

Bucky’s mouth purses and he sort of looks like he might cry. “Liar,” he whispers furiously, still agitatedly combing his bangs back with his fingers. Before Steve can reply, he’s biting out, “I knew it. I fucking knew I’d mess it up, even though you let me - you kept letting me be the one to control things. I thought I could handle it better, this way - I wasn’t - I was always shit at being the other side, I should have fucking known I couldn’t handle it -“

Steve feels like he lost the thread of this argument five turns back. Like every miscommunication effort these days, like putting things down and not making eye contact - he tries to suss the thing.

“Bucky, what other side? There’s sides?” Steve asks cautiously.

Bucky is still sneering at himself, looking like he might yank his hair out. He rolls his eyes, but pauses for a moment, before replying, “the one who makes it happen, and the one who lets it?” He hazards, a slow suspicion creeping onto his face.

“Right,” Steve says, thoughts racing. “Right. Bucky, can you sit down? We should talk.”

Bucky looks at the edge of the bed by Steve for a quick moment, something pained on his face, and then he settles onto the ground, leaning forward to hug his knees as he stares over at Steve.

“I think maybe we should have talked about this before we had sex,” Steve says faintly, holding his fractured wrist in his lap, throat still aching, ass still tender. “You know how sometimes you don’t think of things the way I do?”

Bucky just says, “what -“ and then seems to abort the thought, digging his nose into his knees. Steve gives him a moment, more because Steve’s still trying to think of something to say than because Bucky looks like he wants to talk. Still, eventually Bucky says, “I fucked it up,” firmly and with no room for argument. Steve’s almost certain he still doesn’t get what’s wrong with the picture, but Bucky’s apparently ready to shoulder the blame.

Steve finds himself chuckling, feeling a bit hysterical. “Yeah, we both did.” He draws himself up, tries to prepare for the following conversation. “Bucky, I need to ask you some things. No judgement, just need to establish parameters.”

“Go ahead,” Bucky offers, sounding as tired and miserable as Steve feels.

Steve thinks for a moment, and then just bites the bullet. “How does sex work for you?”

Bucky gives him a Look. “Genitals are touched and somebody comes,” he says mockingly, like he thinks Steve’s trying to pull his leg.

“Alright,” Steve nods. He tries to think of a less inflammatory way to say it, fails. “Why do you think there has to be someone doing it and someone laying back and taking it?”

Bucky continues to look suspicious, “‘cause that’s how I always did it. That’s how it’s done. Someone gets to touch someone, and it’s -” Bucky shrugs, like it’s real obvious and Steve’s being obtuse.

“You - know it’s wrong to touch someone unless they agree to it, right?” Steve has to ask, has to establish where the hell they are.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but looks even more uncomfortable, visibly trying to see what Steve’s getting at. “Well, yeah. But.” He looks so nervous now, and it physically pains Steve the soft way he asks, “but we both wanted to, right? We - we both fucked up a little sometimes, but we both wanted it,” Bucky pleads.

“Bucky, yeah - we did - I did.” Bucky looks relieved, and Steve wishes it were that easy. “But, people can take it back, you know? It’s not - once I told you I wanted to, that didn’t mean you got to just do whatever you wanted without asking - “ Bucky’s got a tense expression, and Steve can’t even begin to understand what’s going through his head. “I mean, I should have - part of that was on me, I should have said something if I didn’t like it - “

“You didn’t?” Bucky’s tense expression is even worse, now.

“- I did! I just - I wished we’d have talked about it, maybe, or that we’d done things differently - “ what he wants to say is: ‘I never want to feel like I felt when you said I was better at being a “fuckhole” than you. I never want to wonder where you learned these things, even as I want you to keep going.’ “ - and, I feel like. Maybe we could take things a little easier, sometimes?”

“There’s always someone who decides what’s best and someone who - “ Bucky starts off firm but cuts himself off when his voice cracks.

Steve wants to touch him, to crawl off the bed and hold those hunched shoulders. But his pulsing, swelling wrist is a decent reminder.

“I liked it,” Bucky says eventually. “I just wasn’t great at sitting through it - I thought, maybe I just was bad at that - I thought you were being nice by letting me -“

“ - it’s not your fault, and you didn’t ever consent to it, Bucky - none of what they made you do - “ Steve says, fervent.

Bucky stares at him, shrewd like. “I made you do it - you feel the same way about what we did?”

“No, no, no - that’s not what I meant - I wanted it, just - not like that. And you didn’t know, you don’t have any context to know, it’s just one of those things - “ Steve’s leaning over the edge of the bed now, slightly. His left hand is braced on the edge. Bucky’s eyes flicker down to his other hand.

“I wanted it at the time. And I guaran-fucking-tee you they thought they were doing what was right when we - “

“They didn’t give a fuck about you, the fact that you’re sitting here feeling sorry that you hurt me says a whole hell of a lot about the difference, Buck,” Steve snaps, dismayed by the way Bucky bristles a little at the angry tone before settling.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just stands and starts digging in their bags. “Let’s get that wrist wrapped,” he says, quietly.

~ ~ ~

After that, it’s a long time before they try again. A lot of longing glances at the backs of eachothers’ heads - if the way Bucky catches Steve’s eye sometimes when he turns counts for anything. A lot of Bucky asking repeatedly - probably to the point of annoying - if Steve’s okay with a certain action, with Bucky’s finger here, or there. It’s different, learning Steve’s likes and dislikes this way. Knowing he could push him further, but always backing off if Steve says ‘no’.

Here’s the thing: Bucky knows it wasn’t right. Loves how soft and easy it can be, these days. How much easier it is to know parameters when they both define them so clearly.

But there’s a part of him that maybe misses the easy way he’d been able to take Steve apart, how intimate it had been for Steve to let him have control like that - to be able to touch him anyway Bucky pleased. To touch him as if he was Bucky’s own body.

Bucky feels sick to have these thoughts, hates himself a little to see the reflection of Hydra in them.

But he can’t stop having them. Can’t stop still thinking it’s right, even if he knows it wouldn’t be. Knows Steve doesn’t want that.

~ ~ ~

Steve sets down his coffee mug while talking to Bucky, sometimes. Somedays, Bucky still picks it up before thinking.