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Somehow stumbling down the gangplank of the aircraft sweaty and weak with exhaustion is worse than stomping up it into the danger of the mission. His breath rasps audibly beneath his mask as he tries and fails to keep himself from anxiously scanning the awaiting crowd. The eyes that skate over him like he isn’t there are his favorite. The ones that register shock, disgust, as if they lost a bet that this mission would be the one where he became soldat again, the machine, the monster, are the worst. He digs his fingernails into his palm and wills himself to keep trudging out of the landing area despite his bruised body.
You’re not there.
That doesn’t hurt. Not even as he watches Pepper rush forward to embrace Tony, or Thor and Loki share a brotherly embrace. It doesn’t hurt .
It’s better this way. He is too exhausted to keep up the facade. Every interaction with you is like walking the plank between desire and horror. If you ever learned how much he cares about you, how strongly he craves your little gestures of affection, you would pull back. He can’t have a normal life. He doesn’t deserve one.
He tries not to let his heart curl into pieces as his teammates continue to be greeted jubilantly by friends, partners, lovers, and he receives a wide berth. Stay calm, just get to your room . He wants the floor to swallow him at the thought of crying here. Maybe you are out of the Tower today. Maybe you just don’t want to see his sorry ass .
He senses you almost before he sees you, rounding the corner just out of sight of the main aircraft landing space.
“Bucky, I’m so happy you’re back!” Your scent envelops him just seconds before your arms. He winces as you squeeze around his bruised ribs. You pull away and he hates himself for showing such weakness that he lost the only embrace he’s going to get today. No matter how many times she lets her fingertips trace over his arm, or her shoulder brush his, it’s never enough.
Her eyes dart to and fro across his face. He must look awful, what she can see of him anyway. He feels haggard.
“You probably need the medbay... “ she begins, and he can’t help a small whine from escaping as the stab of fear that images of lab coats and gurneys prompt in him, “But do you wanna just come up to my room? I really missed you, Bucky. I can help you to the elevator. Lean on me a little.”
He is beyond relieved to sag his weight onto your shoulders and allow you to guide him to the elevator and up to your quarters, which are luckily not too far. All thoughts of what is for the best are gone from his head.
He is guided gently to the upholstered loveseat in what serves as your living room, and you peel his mask from his clammy skin, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. He aches for more, to reach out and touch you, but you are gone too quickly. Don’t forget about your monstrous hand.
“Do you want some tea? Some ice? I heard you were amazing in the field, but I just wish they would stop sending you out. I really worry about you, Bucky.”
He doesn’t know what to say, to do. If he ever knew how to act when trying to get close to another person, HYDRA had long since tortured it out of him. You settle next to him on the couch. A respectful distance, but close enough to run your fingers through his sweaty hair. “Are you okay?”
Is he? Breathing hurt. The adrenaline of fighting brought back so many horrible memories. Being out in the world reminded him of everything he lost. He only ever really felt okay … here. Here he felt cared for in a way that didn’t make him feel helpless. He is silent for too long, and you reach closer to put your arm around him.
Like a man possessed, her grabs you by the waist and pulls you in, breathing in the scent of your hair. His hind brain is in control. Safe. Loved.
Your sharp intake of breath.
He pulls back, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I just, I just needed - “ a sob breaks off his words. His excuses. Crossed a major line .
“Don’t apologize. Hey, now,” you pull him in, resting his head on your chest, he can feel your soft curves, your warm skin beneath his cheek. “I’ve thought about touching you, too. I only haven’t because touch is touchy sometimes, not because I don’t want to.”
“Never uncomfortable with you.” His voice is hoarse, he is dangerously close to openly crying, but he doesn’t care. He is okay, here, cocooned.
“That’s good, Bucky, you’re so good,” you curl yourself around him and maybe an embarrassing little moan sneaks through his shattered self-control.
“I don’t mean to be needy.” Yes, you do.
“It’s not needy to need a hug, Bucky.” You’re smiling, he thinks. “And I like us holding each other. I want to do it more often, yeah?”
“I want to - can I - do you mind - about the - “ and he gestures with his metal arm. He is trying not to touch your bare skin with it, but it’s difficult and he is sore and tired and -
“Any part of you, any time, always,” you whisper in his ear. He shivers and wraps it tightly around you - he is not clinging, he is not - and he feels way more than okay when you don’t flinch at all.