[Marvel] Fic: Cap/Bucky - London Bridges
Title: London Bridges
Fandom: Captain America (v5)
Pairing: Steve/Bucky
Rating: R-Nc-17
Word Count: 1,486
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I'd be trying to do as good a job as Brubaker.
Summary: Steve gets Bucky back.
Author's Notes: AU after Captain America 21 and unbetaed.
Steve doesn't ask where Fury got the arm. He does ask if anyone's going to come with it. Fury's savage-sly smile is hardly reassuring but his promise that no-one else knows, oddly, is. The package arrives while Bucky's still unconscious. Jack fetches it and it's on the table when Spitfire pries Steve away for breakfast.
Steve stares at it. Notes the confident black scrawl that is all Fury and looks up. "This is it?"
"According to your bloke with the cigar fetish, aye." Jack is already sipping tea. "That's the birdie."
Steve picks it up, tests the weight and shape. "Should we wait?"
Sharon shakes her head, shower-damp blonde hair tumbling with the movement. "According to S.H.I.E.L.D's medical staff, it's better if he's unconscious while the arm's attached. It's supposed to help in shortening the adjustment period or something like that."
Spitfire nods, speaking through a mouthful of muffin. "Aye, and what will him waking up change? We can hardly bolt his old one back on. There's not enough left for pocket change!"
Steve tears open one of the flaps. The gleam of gun-steel metal and a new star - no, a shield. His shield. He blinks, catches sight of a yellow page crumpled in the polished metal fist. Curious, he works it free. A note. From Fury, of course.
"Before you go working yourself up, thought you should know that the kid designed this all by himself. - Fury"
The slow, wondering smile takes Steve by surprise. He's hoped. He's believed. Hell, he's prayed. But this - Bucky branding himself with Steve's mark? - this is the first time he's known things will be okay. "All right. Let's do it."
Spitfire and Sharon handle everything. Spitfire rounds up the professionals and equipment. Sharon gets the use of an operating theatre and the professional disinterest needed to keep Bucky hidden. Steve doesn't even pretend to be useful. He sits by the bed, hand on Bucky's chest, counting the heartbeats and blessings.
The procedure goes without a hitch. Apparently they can thank the Russians for that. Steve thinks of what he'd rather do to Vasily and his protégé and stays quiet. Bucky sleeps through it, drugged to the eyeballs and then some. Sharon tells him that the doctors insisted.
They get Bucky back to the flat and the others leave for the weekend. No fanfare, no coyness. Spitfire just threads arms with Jack and Sharon and tells Steve to have a good one.
Bucky is asleep in the bed that was Steve's. Steve putters around the kitchen for as long as he can bear it before he comes back up to sit on the edge of the bed and stare. Bucky looks more like Steve remembers him when he's asleep. No wariness, no frown and no naked pain shining though dark eyes. The few stray lines look more like laughter lines when he's relaxed.
Steve traces the shape of a mask across the bridge of Bucky's nose and takes a moment to be grateful for this. Of all the things that he gave for his country, Buck's the one thing he truly didn't want to. Having him back, safe if not without scars, is such a big thing to be grateful for that Steve thinks it could take the rest of his - their lives to fit all the gratitude in.
Bucky shifts in his sleep, brows drawing together and lips parting. Steve leans forward as Bucky tenses, muscles twitching. He can't know what nightmare Bucky's facing. Even back in WWII, there were nights when Bucky's grin and sharp-shootin' weren't enough to keep the nightmares at bay.
Steve doesn't remember the specifics. He doesn't have to; muscle memory already has him moving. He slips into the bed, wrapping arms around the shaking figure and settles his chin against Bucky's shoulder. He doesn't have to say anything; won't unless things get worse.
Bucky shivers and twists, keening softly. Steve feels something hot and bitter twist in his gut. There's no way to tell what exactly Bucky's dreaming (remembering). But he's read the damn file. He knows exactly how far Vassily went to ensure his pet project was well and truly leashed.
"I'm sorry." He whispers, tightening his grip. "I'm sorry, Buck."
Bucky jerks awake in a gasp of indrawn breath. Steve is ready, doesn't flinch, prepared for the momentary struggle…which doesn't come. Instead Bucky's hand, the original flesh-and-bone one, reaches up to grope blindly for Steve's wrist. Steve hesitates, not sure what to do now that the barely-remembered routine is broken.
Bucky clutches his wrist tight enough to bruise. Steve tightens his embrace, offering support, shelter; whatever Buck needs from him. Just like it always has been. Bucky exhales on a jittery whimper, all nerves and cold sweat. His grip barely slackens but some of the trip-wire tension ebbs from his too-thin frame. "Cap?"
"Right here, Buck." Steve promises. "I've got you. You're safe now."
Bucky laughs, a short bark of ice-bitter amusement that cracks into something more like a sob. He doesn't try to get loose, just clings to Steve's wrist and breathes in short stuttering gasps. If there are words to make this better, Steve can't find them. All he can do is hold on as Bucky finally breaks.
Time passes. Steve doesn't keep count. He just hangs on, whispering reassurance and rubbing his thumb against Bucky's too-prominent ribcage. Bucky speaks in short random bursts, more emotion than sense. Nothing Steve can debate or disprove. So he doesn't try, just keeps talking to the underlying emotion. Bucky's here, Bucky's safe, it wasn't his fault.
The gospel according to Steve Rodgers.
Finally, they reach a point where Bucky's wrung out, exhausted and hollowed out. Adrenaline quivers through muscles, keeps his eyes open. Steve is feeling pretty damn raw himself but Bucky is here, not running and for the first time since Steve faced him across the fires of Stamford, he smells like Bucky. The fact that Bucky-scent is pretty much hard-wired into Steve's libido hasn't been a problem since 1941.
It's getting a trifle pressing right now. Steve absolutely doesn’t want to pressure Bucky into anything. He's told God often enough that he'd give anything to have Bucky back to grudge the price now.
Nonetheless…it's Bucky. And lying here, in a single bed barely wide enough to hold one of them, Steve can feel every inch of his partner. They're alive, they're together and Bucky's finished growing up. Steve's tried all his life to be a good man but he's never claimed to be a saint. If Bucky is willing…
The subject of this rapid-fire moralizing takes matters neatly out of Steve's hands by pressing rough lips against Steve's captive wrist. Steve jumps, breath catching and feels Bucky smile against his skin. "Bucky?"
"Steve?" It's a little hesitant, hopeful but afraid to presume but it's an answer. Glory be, it's an answer.
Steve leans in to press a kiss against Bucky's sweaty temple. They're both tired and charged up. No time for finesse but he promises they will. Next time they do this, they'll do it with the lights on and face to face but right now, that's not what Bucky needs.
He's pushing back, rocking his hips inexpertly against Steve's growing hardness. Steve works his free hand under Bucky's body, fingers dipping into the waistband of his hospital-issued boxers. Bucky's hand tightens convulsively on Steve's wrist but the soft gasp seems more surprise than fright.
Bucky is hard and hot in his hand, the chill of his metal arm warming as Steve's arm moves against it. Bucky arches back against him, baring his throat and babbling. Steve slicks pre-come along his palm. Curls fingers around Bucky's cock and rubs his thumb along the throb of the vein.
Bucky's gasps bleed into babble; Steve's name, God's and a needy desperate plea. Steve strokes harder, faster, Bucky's hips grinding back against him as their breath quickens and pants together. Bucky's metal hand, cool and smooth, lifts to brush against the back of Steve's hand.
They bump and slip against each other, clumsy in their need. Bucky barely lasts a full minute, body freezing and a strangled cry as he comes all over Steve's hand. The feel-scent-taste of Bucky's skin pulls Steve right along with him.
Lying together, breathless and sticky-slick, Steve rolls Bucky over. Bucky's arm drapes across Steve's hip. He blinks at Steve though heavy-lidded eyes and smiles. It's not quite the devil-may-care grin of old but it's a start. Steve presses a sleepy, sloppy kiss to that smile. "Love you, Buck."
Bucky's eyes go wide and there's a moment where he tenses and Steve has to fight the urge to grab him and hold on tight, then Bucky ducks his head to press against Steve's collarbone. Curls his arm a little so he's curled up tight with Steve and never mind the mess they'll be by morning. "Yeah. Yeah, me too."
Fandom: Captain America (v5)
Pairing: Steve/Bucky
Rating: R-Nc-17
Word Count: 1,486
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I'd be trying to do as good a job as Brubaker.
Summary: Steve gets Bucky back.
Author's Notes: AU after Captain America 21 and unbetaed.
Steve doesn't ask where Fury got the arm. He does ask if anyone's going to come with it. Fury's savage-sly smile is hardly reassuring but his promise that no-one else knows, oddly, is. The package arrives while Bucky's still unconscious. Jack fetches it and it's on the table when Spitfire pries Steve away for breakfast.
Steve stares at it. Notes the confident black scrawl that is all Fury and looks up. "This is it?"
"According to your bloke with the cigar fetish, aye." Jack is already sipping tea. "That's the birdie."
Steve picks it up, tests the weight and shape. "Should we wait?"
Sharon shakes her head, shower-damp blonde hair tumbling with the movement. "According to S.H.I.E.L.D's medical staff, it's better if he's unconscious while the arm's attached. It's supposed to help in shortening the adjustment period or something like that."
Spitfire nods, speaking through a mouthful of muffin. "Aye, and what will him waking up change? We can hardly bolt his old one back on. There's not enough left for pocket change!"
Steve tears open one of the flaps. The gleam of gun-steel metal and a new star - no, a shield. His shield. He blinks, catches sight of a yellow page crumpled in the polished metal fist. Curious, he works it free. A note. From Fury, of course.
"Before you go working yourself up, thought you should know that the kid designed this all by himself. - Fury"
The slow, wondering smile takes Steve by surprise. He's hoped. He's believed. Hell, he's prayed. But this - Bucky branding himself with Steve's mark? - this is the first time he's known things will be okay. "All right. Let's do it."
Spitfire and Sharon handle everything. Spitfire rounds up the professionals and equipment. Sharon gets the use of an operating theatre and the professional disinterest needed to keep Bucky hidden. Steve doesn't even pretend to be useful. He sits by the bed, hand on Bucky's chest, counting the heartbeats and blessings.
The procedure goes without a hitch. Apparently they can thank the Russians for that. Steve thinks of what he'd rather do to Vasily and his protégé and stays quiet. Bucky sleeps through it, drugged to the eyeballs and then some. Sharon tells him that the doctors insisted.
They get Bucky back to the flat and the others leave for the weekend. No fanfare, no coyness. Spitfire just threads arms with Jack and Sharon and tells Steve to have a good one.
Bucky is asleep in the bed that was Steve's. Steve putters around the kitchen for as long as he can bear it before he comes back up to sit on the edge of the bed and stare. Bucky looks more like Steve remembers him when he's asleep. No wariness, no frown and no naked pain shining though dark eyes. The few stray lines look more like laughter lines when he's relaxed.
Steve traces the shape of a mask across the bridge of Bucky's nose and takes a moment to be grateful for this. Of all the things that he gave for his country, Buck's the one thing he truly didn't want to. Having him back, safe if not without scars, is such a big thing to be grateful for that Steve thinks it could take the rest of his - their lives to fit all the gratitude in.
Bucky shifts in his sleep, brows drawing together and lips parting. Steve leans forward as Bucky tenses, muscles twitching. He can't know what nightmare Bucky's facing. Even back in WWII, there were nights when Bucky's grin and sharp-shootin' weren't enough to keep the nightmares at bay.
Steve doesn't remember the specifics. He doesn't have to; muscle memory already has him moving. He slips into the bed, wrapping arms around the shaking figure and settles his chin against Bucky's shoulder. He doesn't have to say anything; won't unless things get worse.
Bucky shivers and twists, keening softly. Steve feels something hot and bitter twist in his gut. There's no way to tell what exactly Bucky's dreaming (remembering). But he's read the damn file. He knows exactly how far Vassily went to ensure his pet project was well and truly leashed.
"I'm sorry." He whispers, tightening his grip. "I'm sorry, Buck."
Bucky jerks awake in a gasp of indrawn breath. Steve is ready, doesn't flinch, prepared for the momentary struggle…which doesn't come. Instead Bucky's hand, the original flesh-and-bone one, reaches up to grope blindly for Steve's wrist. Steve hesitates, not sure what to do now that the barely-remembered routine is broken.
Bucky clutches his wrist tight enough to bruise. Steve tightens his embrace, offering support, shelter; whatever Buck needs from him. Just like it always has been. Bucky exhales on a jittery whimper, all nerves and cold sweat. His grip barely slackens but some of the trip-wire tension ebbs from his too-thin frame. "Cap?"
"Right here, Buck." Steve promises. "I've got you. You're safe now."
Bucky laughs, a short bark of ice-bitter amusement that cracks into something more like a sob. He doesn't try to get loose, just clings to Steve's wrist and breathes in short stuttering gasps. If there are words to make this better, Steve can't find them. All he can do is hold on as Bucky finally breaks.
Time passes. Steve doesn't keep count. He just hangs on, whispering reassurance and rubbing his thumb against Bucky's too-prominent ribcage. Bucky speaks in short random bursts, more emotion than sense. Nothing Steve can debate or disprove. So he doesn't try, just keeps talking to the underlying emotion. Bucky's here, Bucky's safe, it wasn't his fault.
The gospel according to Steve Rodgers.
Finally, they reach a point where Bucky's wrung out, exhausted and hollowed out. Adrenaline quivers through muscles, keeps his eyes open. Steve is feeling pretty damn raw himself but Bucky is here, not running and for the first time since Steve faced him across the fires of Stamford, he smells like Bucky. The fact that Bucky-scent is pretty much hard-wired into Steve's libido hasn't been a problem since 1941.
It's getting a trifle pressing right now. Steve absolutely doesn’t want to pressure Bucky into anything. He's told God often enough that he'd give anything to have Bucky back to grudge the price now.
Nonetheless…it's Bucky. And lying here, in a single bed barely wide enough to hold one of them, Steve can feel every inch of his partner. They're alive, they're together and Bucky's finished growing up. Steve's tried all his life to be a good man but he's never claimed to be a saint. If Bucky is willing…
The subject of this rapid-fire moralizing takes matters neatly out of Steve's hands by pressing rough lips against Steve's captive wrist. Steve jumps, breath catching and feels Bucky smile against his skin. "Bucky?"
"Steve?" It's a little hesitant, hopeful but afraid to presume but it's an answer. Glory be, it's an answer.
Steve leans in to press a kiss against Bucky's sweaty temple. They're both tired and charged up. No time for finesse but he promises they will. Next time they do this, they'll do it with the lights on and face to face but right now, that's not what Bucky needs.
He's pushing back, rocking his hips inexpertly against Steve's growing hardness. Steve works his free hand under Bucky's body, fingers dipping into the waistband of his hospital-issued boxers. Bucky's hand tightens convulsively on Steve's wrist but the soft gasp seems more surprise than fright.
Bucky is hard and hot in his hand, the chill of his metal arm warming as Steve's arm moves against it. Bucky arches back against him, baring his throat and babbling. Steve slicks pre-come along his palm. Curls fingers around Bucky's cock and rubs his thumb along the throb of the vein.
Bucky's gasps bleed into babble; Steve's name, God's and a needy desperate plea. Steve strokes harder, faster, Bucky's hips grinding back against him as their breath quickens and pants together. Bucky's metal hand, cool and smooth, lifts to brush against the back of Steve's hand.
They bump and slip against each other, clumsy in their need. Bucky barely lasts a full minute, body freezing and a strangled cry as he comes all over Steve's hand. The feel-scent-taste of Bucky's skin pulls Steve right along with him.
Lying together, breathless and sticky-slick, Steve rolls Bucky over. Bucky's arm drapes across Steve's hip. He blinks at Steve though heavy-lidded eyes and smiles. It's not quite the devil-may-care grin of old but it's a start. Steve presses a sleepy, sloppy kiss to that smile. "Love you, Buck."
Bucky's eyes go wide and there's a moment where he tenses and Steve has to fight the urge to grab him and hold on tight, then Bucky ducks his head to press against Steve's collarbone. Curls his arm a little so he's curled up tight with Steve and never mind the mess they'll be by morning. "Yeah. Yeah, me too."