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Bucky Barnes has difficulty in remembering the times when he knew that the human touch wasn't so bad.
The quick pace of his new life as an Avenger distracts him from the fact that he doesn’t know himself too well, either. Bucky knows that his real name is James Buchanan Barnes, he knows his dead sister’s name was Rebecca, and he knows that Steve Rogers used to be a good friend of his, but he has no clue who he is, who he was.
It is a cruel fact of his life that is cruel that haunts him day in and day out.
He tries, though. He tires himself out trying to remember what it used to feel like to be human. No, not just human; he tries to remember what it used to feel like to be a human that could feel something other than cool grief, a human that could yearn the human touch, one that could feel something akin to warmth.
Warmth is such a foreign notion to Bucky.
Therefore, when he first meets you and he feels something tender and warm blossoming in the pit of his nervous belly, he can’t help but revere you indefinitely.
He does so with bashful glances when you’re not looking.
It’s odd, really. Steve always told you Bucky used to be quite the talker and quite the charming young man.
But, then again, that was back then, back in a time where humanity still couldn’t fathom the idea of greedy hands controlling a terrified young man’s mind.
So, you don’t think much of Steve’s friend’s serious demeanor. You reason that it isn’t so easy to be all that happy after being tortured and controlled by the likes of HYDRA.
You don’t take it so personally when Bucky gives you nothing more than one-word or two-word answers. It’s efficient enough that he gets his point across, but it leaves you wanting a little more.
Steve notices, however, that Bucky’s only doing this with you. He notices with a smile on his face when his metal-armed friend looks at you like a hopeless puppy when you look away for even a second.
Over the span of half a year in the compound, the whole team, yourself included, notices Bucky’s behavior around you. He’s timid and quiet and so gentle with you that it makes the aloof Natasha Romanoff smirk teasingly at you every damn time he smiles at you.
The gossip-loving woman stops by your room more often.
Tonight is no different, it seems.
You listen with a frown on your face as she knocks rapidly against your complex door, and you have half the mind to yell at her to knock it off.
When you come to the conclusion that she will not stop knocking until you open the door, you lift your duvet off of your body and pad over the carpet to the door with messy hair and sleepy eyes. The door is drawn open and you’re met with a green-eyed redhead, a flirtatious smile on her full pink lips.
She makes a show of looking over your shoulder, investigating, “Mr. Barnes isn’t in here, is he? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Natasha laughs huskily when you roll your eyes and make way for her to enter your sleeping quarters. She closes the door behind her and follows you straight to bed. You almost argue when you realize she’s wearing her pajamas and fluffy socks.
Wordlessly, she crawls into your bed and watches you turn off the lamp.
She doesn’t speak until you slither back into bed, laying flat on your back as she turns on her side and faces you. She’s quiet for a moment, a soft look on her usually cool face.
“How was your date with him?”
You chuckle, “It wasn’t a date, Nat.”
“Of course it was!” She argues with a grin, “It was just you and him.”
You snort at her, "Yeah, at the grocery store. Nat, I know you want to believe we’ve been on dates before, but you consider him following me to Wal-Mart a date.”
Natasha giggles quietly before she huffs out a sigh, watching as you close your eyes. Her mouth hangs open for a while like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. Not for a while.
And when she does, she does so gently, softly, “He talks to me about you, y’know? I...I’m supposed to keep secrets...I know I am, but he talks to me about you and it drives me crazy to know you want to be with him just as much as he wants to be with you. It drives me crazy when he tells me he thinks he doesn’t deserve someone like you.”
“Natasha,” You start, exhausted and wanting to sleep. Your argument falls short, however, as you find yourself wanting to know a little bit more.
“Please, just hear me out,” Natasha interrupts, cuddling deeper into your duvet as she watches you through the moonlight, “You know for a fact that you have that man wrapped around your pinky. And you know exactly why he goes everywhere with you, following you around like damn Rottweiler. You don’t need me to tell you what to do, but I’m afraid something will happen and he’ll never know that you loved him, too.”
“Nothing’ll happen to him.”
“I wasn't talking about him,” She starts sadly, “He’s a super-soldier, but you're, well, you’re not.”
“Neither are you,” You argue quietly.
“Maybe not, but I got the serum in the Red Room, you know that,” Natasha speaks sternly, “You are entirely human, untouched and unenhanced. Completely vulnerable. We know that, he knows that. And that’s what he talks to me about. Every damn time he talks about it, God, you can’t imagine the terror in his eyes.”
You watch her silently, watching the way her brows furrow and her lips pull back into a melancholic smile, “You and I both know that this isn’t just a crush. It might’ve been one at the beginning, but it’s not anymore. Whatever is going on between you and Bucky, it’s something more. With the way he looks at you, I know it is. The way you look at him.”
“Is it that obvious?” You ask shamefully, a small tinge of pink climbing up your throat.
Natasha smirks, “I’ve got a bet going on with Clint and Sam about how long it’ll take before we see you both swapping spit like a pair of teenagers.”
“Ugh,” You grimace and nudge her, “I hate you guys.”
“You love us.”
You do.
“Go to sleep.” You groan at her, turning onto your side as you face away from her.
Warmth radiates from her as you feel her glide closer, her back to yours as she releases a final plea.
“You're gonna help him so much. I know you will.”
When you wake up, there’s an angry wave of thirst that rolls over your entire body, a wave that is more than enough to have you sitting up in discomfort as your throat runs dry.
You turn your head to find that Natasha is still fast asleep, before trying not to laugh at the sight of her nearly falling off the other side of the bed, arm hanging off and hair covering her face.
After snapping a quick picture and checking the time, 1:54 A.M, you slide your phone back onto your nightstand and slither out of the room, recoiling as your bare feet meet the sterile tile of the hallways of the Avengers compound.
The sleeping units are entirely silent as you pad down the hallways and into an elevator that sends you two stories down to the common floor. There’s soft Rock that plays in the elevator, knowing Tony’s music taste dictates what plays over the intercom at all times.
The elevator doors slide open to the open concept of the lounge room and a modern shared kitchen. The lights of the lounge are off, but there’s a lamp next to the seating area that dimly illuminates the surrounding radius.
On the coffee table is a single glass of milk, and the man that is supposed to be drinking it is doing nothing but sitting back on the leather couch and watching the glass as if it were evil.
His eyes raise to your figure in the dim lighting and his provocative lips pull back into a small, tight-lipped smile that brings your attention to the squareness of his jaw. You chastise yourself for almost glancing at the ribbed tank that hugs his torso so tightly.
You greet him with a small smile of your own, except this time, you’re remembering everything that Natasha told you in your room, and you make your way to the fridge in the kitchen behind the couch.
“Can’t sleep?” You ask loud enough for him to hear you, fatigue clear in your voice.
“Not usually,” Bucky offers roughly, not at all letting his eyes roam the landscape of your thighs in your sleeping shorts.
When you finally have a tall glass of water to drink, you shove the pitcher back into the fridge and turn around to make your way to the couch that Bucky’s sitting in.
When you perch yourself down next to him, you realize his gaze is trained on the glass in your hand.
He can’t decide whether it’s half full or half empty. So, he asks you.
The question throws you off a bit as you cock a brow at him and look down at your glass of water before looking at the glass of milk on the coffee table.
“Is your glass of milk half full? Or is it half empty?” You ask in retaliation, nodding to his glass. It remains untouched.
Bucky almost says it’s half empty, but then he tilts his head and searches your face for the right answer because saying it's half empty suddenly doesn't feel correct. He catches himself staring at your lips before he bashfully returns his gaze to your eyes. “‘fraid I don’t know yet, doll.”
"Seems there's a lot that you're not sure about these days, James," Bucky stares at you when you say his name the way you do. His heart begins to beat viciously against his ribcage and he's sure that if you stare at him any longer he'll collapse into smithereens.
He smiles a tiny smile and looks away, lowering his head to run a pair of silver fingers through his chocolate tresses.
Your observant eyes follow his movements, the glint of his arm flashing for a brief second when it reflects the dim lighting of the lamps decorating the lounge. It catches your eye for longer than it's ever done. You're always amazed by the intricacies that T’Challa and his team had incorporated to the improved appendage back in Wakanda.
A gentle whir of cogs and machinery brings you back to Earth, back to a pair of blue eyes that remind you an awful lot of a Wintery mist rolling over an icy blue lake.
Bucky is used to being considered some kind of public spectacle, he's used to odd looks even when his arm is covered, but, for some reason, the way you'd just looked at his arm sets off a warmth within him. Your scrutinizing eyes lack the severe judgment and terror that he usually endures, yet he finds himself beginning to flush a dull red when you speak up again.
“Do you mind if I, um, if I touch it?”
The question clearly throws him off a bit.
“You wanna touch it?” Bucky's voice is small and abundant with disbelief, his beautiful eyes exploring the terrain of your face, looking for a hint that you’re lying, that he's the most disgusting thing you've ever seen. But he finds nothing but genuine marvel in the way you're looking at him.
He nods slowly. His belly grows tight as he watches you crawl over the short distance of the couch until you're pressed to his side, tight and he can't breathe.
Bucky finds that there's a surreal kind of warmth that radiates from your presence, a warmth that pulls him in and reminds him of something..is it home? That’s what gets his heart and mind going into overdrive; the gentleness of your fingers running along the plates of his silver arm, the wonder in your face, the fact that, though his mind's racing- it's gone silent. He's calm, but his heart's losing it.
He’s staring at you.
“They did a great job,” Bucky manages to hear you murmur through the vicious beating of his soul.
“Yeah,” He agrees, lowering his head to watch your small fingers delicately trace over the brand new A embedded on his Vibranium arm.
“Did it hurt?”
He finds himself relaxing into the softness of your touch, into the gentle whispering of your inquiry. His reply is just as quiet, “Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.”
“Can you feel everything? When I touch it?”
God, yes, he can.
“I can, baby.”
The pet name slips from his lips and it’s so natural that it almost doesn’t faze you, but the inconsistent racing of your heart could probably be heard all over the tower.
A haunting shiver runs down his spine when you run a straight line down his arm, past his elbow and right to his hand. He watches you with unadulterated affection as you bring his silver fingers up to inspect them.
His heart skips a beat with each finger that you touch, and Bucky thinks he’s about to die when you bring the metal pads of his fingers to your lips.
Bucky melts when you look up at him through dark lashes, his chest rises and sinks viciously when you turn his hand and press your hot lips against his cold palm.
Something ripples through his veins in red hot rivers and he realizes he’s learning something monumental.
Bucky Barnes is learning that he's still capable of being madly, deeply in love and that your touch is oddly grounding.
His eyes gloss over as a kind smile forms on your lips and against the metal of his hand.
“Did you feel that?”
“I did. I felt everythin’, sweet girl. Everythin’,” Bucky’s voice is low and entirely alluring as he leans his head down a little bit more, just enough to nuzzle his face right into the side of yours.
He keeps his eyes shut tight as he focuses on the feeling of your small hand roaming back up his arm, over the pink scars where his shoulder meets the metal appendage.
Involuntarily, he presses a microscopic kiss against the corner of your right eye when the heat of your palm presses firmly onto his strong shoulder.
A low hum leaves his lips when you raise your chin enough to press a kiss onto his cheek. You wrap a hand at the back of his neck and pull him back just enough to give yourself some space to look up at him.
You find yourself feeling lucky that you’re this close to a man as beautiful as him, a man that so closely resembles a troubled God, a man that looks at you with such pure intentions to completely defile you when he isn’t so drunk on innocent passion.
Bucky’s eyes trace the curves of your lips and the plumpness of your lower lip before they come back to center in on your own eyes.
“Tell me you’re mine,” He breathes out against your lips, “You’re mine...right? You have to be.”
Because someone that makes him remember love, someone that evokes trust, has to be his.
"D'ya want me to be?"
Bucky's heart sinks when he manages to pinpoint the slight doubt in your voice. He breathes out in disbelief as he lifts a silver hand to your cheek, his thumb swiping just over your cheekbone as he imprints your face into the back of his mind. When your hand comes up to his wrist and you lean into his touch, Bucky's voice lifts into the darkness of the lounge quietly, "Oh, baby," He moves to nuzzle his nose against yours, "I want you to be mine 'n just mine. Because I'm yours 'n only yours."
"Then I'm yours," You nod slowly, watching the exact moment where something in his winter blue eyes snaps into want.
He lowers his head ever so slowly, just enough to leave a whisper of an open-mouthed kiss against your lips.
Bucky finds himself chasing your lips one more time, desperate to memorize the fire that they light within his contracting abdomen. His large hands cradle the back of your head, bringing your lips flushed and tight to his hungry ones.
The smells of Coney Island suddenly fill Bucky's nostrils, the sounds of a carnival rush through his ears, the sight of a Ferris wheel over New York flicker behind his eye lids. For a moment, he thinks he's remembering something. No...he's seeing a future. And it isn't the Hell he thinks he's always thought he deserved. He sees you with cotton candy and he sees you holding a bear that he wins just for you- and in that moment, it's maddening love that surges through his veins.
He used to be a machine with little faith and trust, but he feels, in the middle of this heart-wrenching kiss, that you're about to change that. Because Bucky's heart now beats for you and that future.
The kiss leaves you breathless, even if it's slow and gentle as your hands find refuge in his warmth, pressing against his hard and grounding chest. Your lungs burn in an attempt to warn you that it's time to breathe, so you pull away slowly, reluctantly, leaving Bucky to chase your lips in a pitiful attempt to bring you back in.
He watches you behind full-blown pupils as you bring his forehead down against yours. He's dizzy and a tingle springs over the peach-colored flesh of his lips before it migrates down his chin and his throat and out to his arms.
"Come to bed with me," Bucky whispers out in the silence, his fingers just barely touching the skin over your arms, "Come to bed with me, baby."
As the request sinks in, you remember faintly of the Black Widow that lays in your bed, beneath your duvets in the darkness of your bedroom. But you then remember that this was entirely necessary, because, by the sound of Bucky's voice and the intensity in his eyes, this was necessary for him, it was of dire importance.
"Just for a while."
Bucky cannot sleep.
He tries, though, because you're in his bed and you're silent and your breaths are slow, so he tries to sleep, but it's an attempt that leaves him more tired than before. There's something he wants, something more than your presence. He opens his eyes and stares at the wall before him for a few moments before he turns onto his side, facing you.
You're under his sheets, warming his bed and leaving behind the scent of your shampoo on his pillows but he wants your scent on his skin, all over the rolling terrains of muscle and scars and sun-kissed flesh of his disciplined body.
"Still can't sleep?" Your voice questions into the night as you peek an eye open at him, having felt his gaze on your face.
It is a sight to behold, really, when you finally open both eyes, as your mind tries to process that you're in bed with a man who, just a few months ago, couldn't even give you more than timid glances. A man who is now looking at you like something's about to change, like hope is all over your face and he's desperate to memorize what it looks like.
He shakes his head, and you feel bad because he looks utterly exhausted and absolutely anxious for a few hours of sleep.
"Wanna hold you, doll. I wanna hold you tight, the whole night," He doesn't want you to leave in a little while, he doesn't want you to leave at all, "Stay the night. Please?"
And just like that, with the deep and gruff velvet of the voice that matches his beautifully squared face and dimpled chin, you don't think you want to leave.
Bucky's chasing your skin with his. In the darkness, he finds the outline of your body and wraps a strong warm arm around you. He tugs you into his chest, he presses his hips tight against you, his legs become a tangled mess with yours and the closeness acts like a sedative.
His mind slows before it silences, and all he can think about is the serene slopes of your body against his, the quiet yet heavy beating of your heart against his. His arm tightens around you as you glide in closer, your nose nearly flat against the side of his neck as he buries his face into your hair.
And you stay like that, tangled in each other and the darkness, swathed in silent serenity and warmth.
"Thank you," Bucky breathes out into your hair, "Thank you so much, baby."
"For what?" You murmur tiredly.
"For helpin' me to remember that the human touch ain't so mean."
He pulls away a bit and grabs your hand, the one that's pressed against his chest, and he brings it up to his lips. You chuckle softly as you feel his lips pucker against your knuckles.
"These pretty little hands of yours are mine, baby. You're mine."
Bucky smiles.
It's a smile that reaches his eyes, one that encompasses his tormented heart.
"I wanna feel everythin' with you 'n only you."