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bucky is home, as he said he would be.
buried in files and packets, surrounded by discarded notes and cold coffee, bucky is home.
he's in a mood.
not quite sour. something much deeper. drenched in melancholic regret. it's clear to you when you pressed a kiss to his cheek.
he jumped a bit, which wasn't terribly weird. bucky hadn’t heard you come in, he's just used to you. how you sound busied around the house, going through routines and habits you've developed throughout your relationship, as soon as you walk in the door. and tonight is no different.
no, what gives it away is how he hums to acknowledge you. how he doesn't look up from the paper in his hand, despite how clearly disinterested in the packet he is.
you give him a bit of time, go about your normal routine. it sends you both out of sorts when you break habit.
it's not until your routine brings you in front of him, on the other side of the island table that bucky lifts his head absentmindedly, looking towards you. he hadn’t realised his eyes were starting to unfocus, just following familiar shapes on the page, until he's was pulled back into reality. his glasses, the ones he refuses to wear outside the house, sat too low on his nose for him to see anything.
“you took my coffee.”
you did. you pitched it.“welcome back to the world, buck.”
“my coffee’s gone.”
“yeah, it was cold.” you moved back around the island.
“could’ve reheated it,” he protests, gaining a slight grin when your nose crinkles.
it is, in your opinion, disgusting that he’d let it sit for so long and then microwave it.
and absurd.
he almost only ever hangs out in the kitchen when he's home. the kettle and stove are only a couple of steps away.
“well,” you wrapped your arms around bucky, letting your hands wander, gently moving across his chest, drawing patterns against his undershirt, “you weren’t drinking it.”
your hands were warm, bucky found himself incapable of thinking anything else. it was a welcome reprieve in this moment. they feel nice. “but i might’ve.”
you pull at bucky's metal hand, which had been running its knuckles against his thigh, and brought it to your lips. bucky hadn’t realized he was doing it. wished he hadn’t been. you claim he’s been doing it more since the whole 'new avengers' thing. you're worried bucky will irritate his skin or rub it raw. or that he… well.
bucky doesn’t like to think about it much further than that. he won't do it again.
just tries to ignore it all, really.
you don't talk about it much either. you haven't pushed it, figure it’d be better not to. regardless, bucky is thankful it’s a conversation he’s been able to avoid, for now.
“if it won’t just sit,” you lean down to press your lips to his neck, your voice rumbling against it “i'll make you another cup.”
bucky places a hand over the one caressing his chest, squeezing it a bit. i know, is what he meant to say. he doesn’t quite manage, doesn't really bother. doesn’t need to. by now, you're will acquainted with what all the little touches from james buchanan barnes meant. instead, he groans when you graze your teeth against the skin of his throat. they’re just light bites and kisses. nothing more, never anything further.
not on his neck, at least.
he's spent more than enough nights having his chest, stomach, thighs, and everywhere – anywhere easily hidden, bitten into to know well enough how much his partner adores leaving them. bucky finds it almost unbearable how much you love to leave those reddish-purple marks anywhere he'll would allow them because you're more than vocal about how darling those splashes of color look on his body. and you're only teasing when you say they would look near divine on his neck, you assure him.
those words always burrow in bucky's chest, leaving a dull ache in its place the second they leave your mouth.
and when you inevitably draw back, “love”, the ache is there before he even says it. “you’re wonderful, you know that?”
he doesn’t always mind those achy feelings. he doesn’t mind it on those bites. because bucky struggles to leave them alone around you. honestly, to anyone else, if anyone saw, it'd probably look like nervous fidgeting: it’s never with much thought that he does it. his hands just find those lovely bruises, gently rubbing them over his shirt when he can feel you looking at him. when he's flooded with grief for not letting you go, because he knows you could do better. should do better than him. it’s compulsive how he presses on tender skin until he catches himself doing it and that twinge feels so good.
it’s different when it’s the man he loves, pressing on bruises he doesn’t know are there.
bucky leans away as much as he can without falling off his stool. he looks away, your name rushing out of his mouth
“and charming.”
bucky scoffs because it’d be a lie from the mouth of anyone but you.
“most gorgeous man i’ve ever seen.”
bucky wants to scoff again because that is a lie from anyone’s mouth. even your's. especially you. you look like a god breathed life into their favourite sculpture. bucky is tall, he's built. but he's worse for wear. he feels like he's all but his own scraps most days.
“you are.”
“stop it.” his face is unreadable, he hopes.
your hand comes to his face, guiding him to look up at you. and, fuck, you look so soft when you say it. “you. this- us is the thing that’s happened to me in the past few years - maybe ever.”
bucky nods. this is the easy part of the conversation for him, “and you are for me.”
he has a look on his face. one you don’t like very much.
“james-”
“can’t we just,” he pauses and takes a breath. he doesn’t know what he would’ve said.
“just what?”
it’s unfortunate. you are really good at this. good enough that bucky can believe, for a few short moments, that he might deserve those words. they spill so easily from your mouth; they’d be cruel if they weren’t so earnest.
“buck? why can’t we what?”
“just- i don’t want to discuss this.”
"why?" it's too gentle.
bucky is quiet.
you don't push, again.
the silence drags on longer than it's welcome.
you kiss his temple and give him an out of sorts. a partial out. “why don't you come shower with me, help clear your head.”
it's a command more than anything. an order, of sorts. one that doesn't require him to think. one that strips him bare and clean. one that's favorable to the previous conversation.
one he's thankful for.