Work Text:
Winter days always seem a bit rougher than summer days. Maybe it’s the bite of the cold, making your nose run and your fingertips lose feeling. Maybe it’s the ever grey skies that darken only a few hours into the evenings.
Either way, he was waiting for you to come home.
You had asked, on your commute to work that morning, if you could swing by that evening after work to have dinner. Just something warm, something you didn’t have to think about.
Of course he said yes. You already had the spare key on your keyring.
Your chest ached by the time you stepped into his place - the sparsely furnished but trying to look more normal apartment - with the winter chill seeping through the layers of clothes you wore. But the heater was on, one you knew he only raised the temperature on before you came over, and it allowed the blood to flow back to your fingers and your toes and your cheeks.
“Long day?” Bucky slides out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
You’re slipping off your shoes and hanging your coat when you look up at him. “Something like that.”
He knows something is wrong just by the way you drop your keys, the way you shrug your work bag off. “Dinner is in the oven, should be ready in less than an hour.”
“What did you make?”
“Baked ziti. You’ll have leftovers for work tomorrow.”
You nearly sigh into him as he finds you, pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “God, I love you.”
“I know.” His voice is low, but you feel him smile when he kisses you again. “Go lay on the couch. I’ll help you feel better.”
You hesitate, just for a moment, “Ugh, James, I just had the longest day at work and I spilled half my coffee before even stepping into the office and-”
“Just trust me, sweetheart,” He guides you with a hand on your lower back, gently forcing you towards the living room. You concede, flopping onto the couch, your head leaned back on the backrest, groaning like it's physically painful, even though it's exactly what you need.
"Work that bad?"
"I don't even want to think about it."
He breathes out something close to a laugh, "Lie down, baby. On your stomach."
"I don't trust you," But of course you do, and you do it anyway. You grab a pillow to hold, press your face into it, let your legs stretch out onto the length of the cushions.
He finds a small spot to sit next to you, and you feel the brush of your shirt untucking from your pants, exposing the soft skin of your back.
The first press of his palm between your shoulder blades, the heel of it warm, feels like a spell. He settles his metal hand on your hip, still, grounding.
He starts just at the base of your neck, strong fingers kneading in slow circles, thumbs sliding down either side of your spine. His movements are deliberate, confident, not rough but firm. He knows exactly where you carry your tension, your weight.
"Just breathe for me, sweet thing." And when he reaches your lower back and presses just right, you let out this soft sound, something close to a whine, a moan.
"There you are," He whispers, leaning in close as his hands work towards your tailbone, the tightness held in your hips, "Knew you were in there somewhere."
"Don't say things like that like," You murmur, but your face is pressed into that pillow and your eyes are closed, and you can't really focus on your words with his hands still on you. "You'll ruin me."
"Good," He finds the lick of skin at the base of your neck, presses his lips to it, breath warm against you, "About time someone did."
He doesn't stop until you're liquid beneath him. Your shift is wrinkled halfway up your spine, cheek pressed to the pillow that smells like him, lips parted. You can smell the warmth of his cooking in the oven, his leftover cologne from when he sprayed it on that morning.
"You keep doing that and I'll fall asleep before dinner."
"You sleep, you don't eat," His hands round the curve of your hips, and you have to close you mouth not to make a sound, "And I made garlic bread."