Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's not new for Sam to wake up hard out of a nightmare, but it's the first time it has happened with the terror sleeping peacefully beside him.

The thump of the Winter Soldier's body on top of his car pounds in his chest, and his ears ring with breaking glass, the scrape of the Soldier's arm against concrete. Beside him, Bucky's breath is a barely there whisper of noise through his nose—Sam's tension must rouse him slightly, because he shifts and Sam can hear the whir of his arm.

Sam swallows hard enough he hears a click and reaches down to adjust himself. He decides to think about it more in the morning even as his hand squeezes his dick through his boxers.

Normally his dreams fade away with consciousness, but this one feels like it is growing in power. The echo of sensation and sound becomes the image of the Soldier standing up in the road in front of him, setting his body, and sprinting.

Adrenaline locks things in your memory, and this has that terror-clarity, the sharp edges of light on the Soldier's arm, the blue sky, Bucky's hair.

Bucky's hair is getting longer. Before going to bed, Sam had tugged it gently, pulling him back to make room for a kiss on his throat, and teased him about looking shaggy. Bucky had laughed—it isn't long enough yet, Sam thinks, and squeezes himself harder.

The yet catches him short and he pauses—maybe he is only now waking up from the dream.

There was shit to think about here. He pulls his hand off his cock fast enough that Bucky's eyes slit open and his peaceful sleep shifts into the ready stillness he has in the precise moment of waking.

"Go back to sleep, baby," Sam murmurs. "I'm just going to get a glass of water."

When Bucky's eyes meet Sam's, he relaxes into a grumbly sort of movement—already on his way back to sleep, and complaining about having been disturbed.

Sam sits up to get out of bed—Bucky leans forward and pushes his face against Sam's hip as he does, somewhere between bussing a kiss against the fabric and wiping his nose.

Sam settles his hand heavily on Bucky's head, scratching his scalp.

Bucky mutters something into the fabric of Sam's boxers, unintelligible, and opens his mouth—he doesn't bite, not quite, but he digs his teeth in. Sam snorts and tightens his grip on Bucky's hair. He can get a good handle on it, now. Maybe that's why Bucky had started growing it out again.

"Be good," Sam says. It's probably his imagination, but he feels Bucky smirk against his skin, even in the dark, even through fabric.

Sam thinks about his dream on his run. Sam has always done some of his best thinking while running. He'd been a twitchy kid, and even as an adult only managed to fake chill when he's getting several miles in. Nowadays, he can feel his body start to give him a break on the constant energy, but that just makes it more important to keep pounding the pavement.

Physical activity, adrenaline, the type of focus that only came from life-or-death kind of situations, in split-second time scales. That has always been the person Sam is, as much as he's learned to put a veneer over it. If he had a chance to jump out of a plane, he can force himself wto smile at an asshole CO. Everyone has their happy place.

He knows it doesn't mean anything to get hard after combat. It hits some guys like that. It hits Sam like that. He doesn't like to be scared, but fear riles him up.

Casting a glance at Bucky running beside him, he thinks, for the thousandth time, for the thousandth reason, he really should've seen falling in love with him sooner.

Bucky, unlike Steve, is content to pace Sam for most of their run. Steve used to get all his energy out right in the beginning so he could stand to be in his own skin, sprinting around in circles. Then, he'd join Sam. Bucky just waits until Sam takes the first shower, and he runs full out, flat out, moving his body in a way a man his size just shouldn't be able to.

When they were still in Delacroix, Sarah caught Sam in the upstairs hallway, towel around his hips, staring out the window and watching. More than once.

Today, Sam doesn't even bother to go inside. He sits on the stoop of the brownstone they moved into just a few months ago. When Bucky hesitates, Sam go-on-gets him until he takes off.

Sam watches him go, and thinks some more.

"You lost your shot for first shower," Bucky says with a smirk. He takes a moment to snap his towel against Sam, walking bare-assed down the hall.

"We need to move the bathroom remodel up a bit," Sam says. He makes no secret of his appraisal of Bucky's ass. "We should be able to share our own shower."

"Tell the world to stop being so fucked up, then maybe we'd have the time." Bucky firmly closes the door behind him. Sam has no doubt he would share his shower, if Sam insisted, but Sam's pretty sure that Bucky uses the shower like he uses his runs. He certainly hogs enough hot water to really get a good think in.

Sam resigns himself to being sweaty for the foreseeable future, and starts throwing together breakfast. He gets the bacon going first, because that smell will get Bucky out marginally faster, and decides this is a treat-himself sort of morning. He's making the biscuits that come out of a tube, and Bucky can just cope with that.

He thinks: I haven't come to any conclusions about my dream, and hears the part of himself that spent too long leading group therapy say, maybe that means you should talk about it.

When Bucky comes in, Sam turns around and hops his ass back up on the counter. It's his counter, he can do that, he thinks as he pats the space between his thighs. Bucky's smile grows as he slips into the invitation—the bastard isn't wearing a shirt, his tags glinting against his chest, the arm on full display. His low slung pair of sweatpants cling to the inside of his thighs from damp and Sam could follow a drop of water down the hollow of his abs, if he wanted to look away from Bucky's eyes.

"I thought you might be in some kind of mood," Bucky says, as he runs his hands up Sam's thighs. Sam hooks his leg around Bucky to tug him closer, rests his palm in the small of Bucky's back.

"I was thinking," Sam says. Bucky's eyes light up, but he scoffs.

"Don't strain—" Sam puts his thumb on Bucky's lower lip, shutting him up. That joke isn't worthy of him, Sam deserves better material.

"You may not like it," he warns. Bucky rolls his eyes and lets Sam's thumb slip between his lips, and maybe Sam should be taking this more serious. He knows there's some risk that Bucky really doesn't like this idea, and he might be setting him up for a dunk in cold water.

But Sam had thought the same thing the first time he'd suggested a bit of kink, and he'd been wrong. His instincts are a strange thing, with Bucky—part of him is always aware that maybe he shouldn't push, but more of him wants to poke at him a little, find the edges and weak spots and test their strength. The thing that makes it all work is that for Bucky, he likes the pressure and for Sam, he likes not having to be so damned responsible all the time.

"I want to fuck the Winter Soldier," Sam says.

Bucky's eyes go wide, bright blue, and he freezes. Sam wonders if he's pushed a little too hard. Bucky eases his face back, just a hair, but he doesn't pull out of Sam's grip. Just far enough to let Sam's thumb fall out his mouth.

"Why don't you tell me more?" he says. He keeps his voice low, a little dirty—not a no. Sam curls his hand around where Bucky's neck meets his shoulder, Sam's pinky brushing the edges of scars.

"I want you to dress up," Sam says. "The old gear, or what we can find of it. I want to put you in a muzzle. And I want you to do what I say."

Bucky's breathing picks up, and his eyes stay wide. Sam brings his other hand up to brush his knuckles down Bucky's sharp cheekbones. Bucky tilts his head into the touch—a signal, more than anything else. A tiny cue that Sam doesn't have to worry, even if the silence might get his nerves going.

His nerves are going. Sam likes the rush of it. Sometimes he thinks he likes the kinky shit not only for how it feels to do, but how it feels to say—he likes the jolt of revealing something vulnerable, and he likes the feeling of tugging it out of Bucky.

"I already do what you say," Bucky says. "We've been doing that for awhile."

"Ehh," Sam says. "Not like this."

They haven't talked about why Bucky likes to submit. It's not that it's not Sam's business—it's that it is a conversation Bucky needs to start, and he hasn't yet. That's not really what Sam's going for here, but if it happens, he supposes it happens.

"Like what?" Bucky asks. "Like I couldn't do anything else?"

"Like you better be under my control, or you'll rip out my fucking steering wheel."

Bucky laughs, a sharp sudden bark. "I hate your truck, maybe I can give you a—"

Sam's hand is perfectly positioned to yank Bucky's hair and he does. "You touch my truck—"

Bucky bares his teeth. "And you'll what?"

This is back into flirty territory. Some part of Sam thinks maybe they didn't resolve the conversation, but the rest of him leans into bite Bucky's Adams' apple, opening his mouth to suck around his teeth. It takes effort to leave a mark on Bucky, but Sam's used to that by now.

"This isn't exactly reinforcing good behavior," Bucky says, swaying his body closer to Sam's.

Sam snorts. "If I wanted good behavior, why I would I be running around with you?"

And then he pushes Bucky to his knees.

"Hypothetically," Bucky starts some time later, and Sam jerks up from his phone to look at him. Bucky grins with all his teeth.

"Hypothetically, if we were to do this, how would it go?"

That gets Sam to put his phone aside.

"Well, first you maybe should teach me Russian," Sam says.

"You don't have the mouth for it," Bucky says. His posture is easy in his chair across the room, one leg hooked over the arm and paperback slapping idly on his thigh, but Sam's following. Sam redirects.

"First, you should get yourself all strapped up in that bondage gear HYDRA called a uniform. Get yourself some eye makeup, get yourself all prettied up."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "It wasn't exactly a fashion statement, Sam."

"You say that, but you walked like a supermodel, so what am I supposed to believe?"

"I walked like a weapon," Bucky says.

"You walked like you could take down any motherfucker in your path," Sam says. "You fought like that, too."

"I took you down," Bucky says. His eyes are steady on Sam's face and he's totally still except for the rhythmic thwap of whatever trash he's reading, keeping time like a heartbeat against his skin.

"You did," Sam says. "Tore my wings off and grounded me."

The floor has dropped out of Sam's voice and gravel's sifting in. Bucky's eyes flicker up and down Sam's body, but he doesn't reply. After a long moment of now-familiar staring, Bucky picks his book back up again. Alpine, sensing that she isn't the center of attention, jumps into his lap, pushing her face between his hand and the paperback. He pets her, and nudges her away enough to read.

"I'll get back to you," he says.

Sam didn't get a no, so he continues to let himself think about it. It's not the first time Bucky's had to chew something over before being able to talk to Sam about it, and it surely won't be the last. He doesn't have time to obsess, but when he's alone in the shower and his hand is around his dick, he doesn't chase away the image of Zemo's thumb in the dimple on the Soldier's chin, the brutal economy of movement of his attack.

They fuck, they save the world, they argue about what shade of white paint works for the trim. Bucky shows up one day with the ugliest sideboard Sam has ever seen, veneer peeling up and rings of stains on the top, and gets huffy when Sam doesn't think he can fix it.

And then their little backyard doubles as a woodshop and all sorts of equipment that Sam couldn't even name, much less use, starts arriving from Amazon.

Sam cuts the tip off of a cigar, pocketing the trash, and lights it. The fragrant smoke blends well with the nippy autumn air, like an expensive cologne. He hears Alpine scratching at the door behind him, but they both ignore her. She's got a wandering soul and they're pretty sure they'd never see her again if they let her out.

Bucky's in a white tank-top and black sweats, and he's focused on figuring out how to rig up the clamps to keep the glue steady. He moves carefully, like this, slower. More considered than how he usually fights. Maybe it's all the fantasizing Sam's been doing about it, but it reminds him of the Soldier. Bucky barely has to work to flip the heavy piece of furniture over and he sets it down so carefully that Sam doesn't even hear it touch the ground. No movement is wasted.

Sam takes a puff of his cigar and decides he doesn't want to keep watching. When Sam stands, he can see Bucky's eyes catch on the movement in his peripheral vision, but Bucky doesn't take his focus away from what he's doing. Even when Sam sets his free hand heavy on the small of Bucky's back, he doesn't move.

"Can I help you?" Bucky says. Sam slips his fingers under edge of Bucky's waistband and like he suspected, Bucky's not wearing underwear.

"Nah, you're good," Sam says. He runs his fingernails gently down that soft patch of barely concealed skin. Bucky's hands are steady on the wood glue. He reaches for the clamp.

"Just hold it," Sam says. "You don't need any clamp—I know how strong you are. Hold it and keep still."

That gets Bucky's breath to catch and Sam grins.

"I didn't know you got off on furniture restoration," Bucky says. He's trying for sardonic, bless his heart, but he's also doing exactly as Sam says. His metal palm is pressing hard against the leg, his flesh hand bracing it.

"You stole my heart with the boat, baby, I don't know why you're surprised." Sam tugs Bucky's pants down just enough that he can get his palm underneath them. Bucky's head shoots up and he looks over his shoulder, startled.

Sam grins at him around the cigar. "Yes?"

They're in their backyard, in Brooklyn. It really isn't secluded, even with the ten-foot privacy fences Bucky put up. Sam waves hello to the lady with the Pomeranian who lives behind them with just about every morning coffee; the Turkish couple on their left brought them a casserole when they moved in. Sam lets his fingers creep down and press against Bucky's hole anyway—Bucky doesn't move.

"The way you work on this stuff reminds me of the way you used to fight," Sam says. He keeps his voice conversational, tapping off some ash next to them. "You're a hot mess nowadays, all screaming and cursing. You used to be way more cool."

Bucky's face is a picture. His mouth is open enough that Sam can see a flash of his pink tongue, and his eyebrows are furrowed. When Sam pushes the tip of his finger into Bucky, he can see it in the flush on Bucky's cheeks and the slight widening of his eyes.

"That's the appeal of the Soldier for you?" Bucky says, and now he sounds like Sam has already fucked his throat. It makes Sam give him about an inch of his finger, Bucky arching his back. The friction is almost unpleasant, and he can feel his fingernail catching delicate skin, but Bucky doesn't object.

"You used to be terrifying," Sam says. "And now all that focus is for the ugliest damn grandma furniture in Brooklyn, and that's saying something."

Bucky's head drops like he can't support it anymore. His arms haven't moved — not even trembled, as steady as the clamps that Sam stopped him from using. But he hangs his head and his breathing has picked up, his hips rising infinitesimally back into Sam's touch.

"You like that? Which part? The fact that you used to be scary, or the fact you aren't anymore?" Sam curls his finger up, tugging against Bucky's rim, and the best fucking part about that question is that not even Sam knows the answer.

"I could still kick your ass," Bucky growls, like Sam's supposed to believe he's not inches away from begging for some more. He pushes his second finger in and hears Bucky snap his teeth shut.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't. How about that, tough guy? You don't have it in you, anymore, and I can tell."

"Are you trying to dare me into this?" Bucky says. Sam loves the way laughter sounds in his voice when he's this horny.

"Is it working?"

"Fuck," Bucky spits. "You realize I was going to clamp this for 24 hours, right?" He looks back over his shoulder at Sam and scowls. "And I'm not letting you fuck me out here. I like Mr. Aksoy and I want to keep being able to look him in the eye."

"Live a little," Sam says, but he backs off, pulling his hand out—he doesn't really want to make the news for this either. He's got a reputation to uphold and he only lets Bucky see all the ways he's too dirty for it. He presses his knuckles into the small of Bucky's back, leaning his weight on him. "Okay, fine, you can use the clamps, champ."

"Fuck you," Bucky says. His hands are perfectly steady as he pieces the equipment together and his eyes are on fire when he stands up, turning to face Sam and getting in his space. Sam leans in and kisses him, using his teeth, and Bucky bites him back.

When they stumble back inside, Bucky has to snag Alpine before she escapes, and Sam feels half-crazy with even that delay, wanting to drag Bucky back to their bedroom by his hair. Bucky seems to be on the same page, pulling them both into the downstairs powder room and pushing Sam against the door to close it, keeping Alpine out.

He bites down on Sam's neck and Sam laughs, sinking his fingers into Bucky's hair, digging his nails into Bucky's scalp. "You don't scare me anymore, baby. This vampire act is nothing when I've seen you up to your eyebrows in papermaché with the boys."

"They deserved an A on that," Bucky says into Sam's skin. He grabs Sam's still smoking cigar and puts it out in the sink.

"Hey, that's Cuban—"

"How was I supposed to know the number of planets had changed?" Bucky slides down Sam's body, and pushes his shoulder between Sam's thighs, making space. Sam's cock is pressing hard against his zipper and Bucky mouths it through the denim, eyes falling closed for a heartbeat, before opening up and glaring when Sam yanks his hair.

"Focus," Sam says. "You used to have focus, that's the problem—"

Bucky tugs Sam's zipper down with his teeth, his nose digging into the fabric of Sam's boxers and not being too careful with the goods. Sam's heart is pounding, and he can't stop smiling, and he's not even clear what Bucky's trying to prove right now, but he can feel the energy rolling off him like sparks from a flame. When Bucky swallows him down, Sam doesn't hesitate—he fucks up into him, down his throat. He uses his grip on Bucky's hair like a handle, forcing his head where he wants him, and Bucky just takes it, with glorious wet noises and a choked-off moan he can't fully contain. It vibrates up Sam's body and it gets him moving harder, without even a hint of consideration for Bucky's comfort.

Bucky hitches Sam's thigh over one of his shoulders, the metal one, and braces himself against the door with his vibranium arm. It's not the best angle for Sam to really force him, but it shows off how fucking strong he is—his straight back, his complete focus on swallowing Sam whole, cock first, not bowed for a second by all of Sam's weight.

Sam braces his foot on Bucky's back and fucks his throat like he wants Bucky to die there, and Bucky just fucking takes it, takes it well enough that he can use his flesh hand to jerk himself off. Sam can see the movement in his right shoulder, can feel the inchoate moans from his chest. It's that, accompanied by the guttural flesh sounds of his throat trying to swallow and stopped up by Sam's cock, that makes Sam come, balls pulling up and his core shaking.

Bucky keeps sucking on him until Sam thumps his leg against Bucky's back, over-sensitive. When Bucky pulls off, he's red-faced and wrecked, tear tracks from the corner of his eyes meeting up with his slick spit-covered chin. His eyes squeeze shut and he shudders all over, mouth opening in a silent cry.

Supporting himself with one hand on the counter, he pulls his other leg up until he's entirely on Bucky's shoulders. Bucky holds him effortlessly, not even flinching when Sam wriggles around to grab the cigar. Sam's softening cock rests on Bucky's cheek, getting him even filthier.

"So, how about it? You think about it enough yet?" Sam says with his best cheesy smile. Predictably, Bucky drops him as he stands up, but Sam's happy to laugh from the ground.

Their master bathroom has box after box of tile waiting for them, but of course that was the cue for a tip to come in about a HYDRA base. With the forlorn way that Bucky looked behind him as they went out the door, Sam thinks that if it had been anyone but HYDRA, he might have passed on the fight. Bucky really has his heart set on a bigger shower, probably because Sam hasn't stopped whining about it.

The intel told them it was a skeleton crew, but when they walk in, it's more like just skeletons. There are a couple corpses old enough to desiccate on dusty lab tables and a lot of empty storage. But that's it.

"All this way for nothing," Bucky says crankily, holstering his sidearm with a huff.

Sam sends Redwing out for a full recon while he pokes at an ancient workstation, a plume of dust rising when he clacks a key.

"They said there was movement on the satellite and you're the one that got all excited about Nowhere, Saskatchewan."

"This was one of my bases," Bucky says. "One of the places they kept me in the nineties. Only bad things could come from HYDRA opening it back up again."

"Well," Sam says, straightening up and gesturing around them. "Looks pretty damned closed to me."

"Guys?" Torres says, over their comms. "Remember, if you want to clear anything out before the Mounties get here, we told them we were going in at four."

Without being asked, Sam's HUD flashes the time—3:42. Wakandan tech could be creepy smart sometimes.

"Anything Canadians can't be trusted with, Buck?" Sam isn't exactly a tech expert, but even he can tell when computers are missing hard drives and the filing cabinets are empty. He's uneasy about how light the dust is there, though—part of him thinks that they've only recently been cleared out.

"Buck?" When Sam looks for him, the room is empty, and the cabinet Bucky was looking through sways gently, open on nothing. Bucky can move quieter than Alpine, if he wants to, but normally things like this would be accompanied by a fairly steady stream of commentary. "Bucky?"

"Next room." Bucky sounds normal, more or less, but in a way that puts Sam's teeth on edge. Too calm. This place is a little like a haunted house, with stale air and the remains of failed experiments as set-dressing. Sam can't help but think about this having been as close to a home as Bucky had, once upon a time.

He goes through the open door. They cleared it of hostiles in their initial sweep, but Sam hadn't thought anything of it, not compared to the lab in the next room with computers and cabinets and bodies. Returning to it, the tableau sharpens into focus. The cylinder in the corner, glass and metal. The hose on the wall, with the heavy livestock drain. Scarred concrete in the center, with big ragged holes from missing bolts and corrosion stains from metal. Bucky looks at the empty space contemplatively, head cocked.

"There used to be a chair here," he says. He sounds steady, but it gets Sam's heart pounding. He's seen footage, he's witnessed Bucky's nightmares, if only from the outside. He can't help but wonder what type of big, toothy shark is underneath the still water of Bucky's face.

"We need to find out how recently it was taken," Sam says. Bucky nods and turns away, slow enough that Sam wonders if he's making a point not to flinch. Redwing returns and chirrups what they already knew—not only is there nobody around, the only things remaining are useless detritus.

Bucky goes to a heavy black cabinet against the wall, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Sam follows him, looking at it over his shoulder. There's a keyhole, and when Bucky tries the handle, it doesn't budge. Casually, Bucky leans over and topples it with an unholy metal screech. Sam jumps back, but Bucky steps around, digs his vibranium fingers into the holes where the bolts attaching it to the wall had ripped out, and tugs open the back like he's peeling off the safety seal on one of his fruit-on-the-bottom yogurts.

"Uh—"

"We should see what's in the only locked door in the place, right?" Bucky says, tossing the metal away with a clatter. It holds its contorted shape and with it off, Sam can see it's nearly an inch thick.

Unexpectedly, Bucky laughs, and he looks up at Sam with a grin.

"Pal, it's your lucky day," he says, and holds up his old mask, dangling off two of his metal fingers. "An original."

Bucky carries his old Winter Soldier uniform home in a garment bag he makes Torres stop at a department store to run in and buy.

"He's not your secretary," Sam says.

"Administrative professional," Bucky snottily corrects. "Jeez, Sam, do you need to look at the worksheets they gave me? I know I saved them somewhere."

The unprotected uniform is folded as carefully as you can fold clothing mostly made out of kevlar and leather. On top of the body armor, the masks and goggles absorb whatever remains of the light. Sam can't stop looking at it.

"He's not our gofer," Sam tries again.

"He doesn't get photographed nearly as often." Bucky seems unconcerned, and to be fair, Torres hadn't been bothered either. He just dropped them off at the airstrip nearby and happily abandoned them to the since-departed Canadian police. Per usual, Bucky had made Sam do most of the talking while he cleaned up, leaving him in a soft-looking henley and too-tight jeans. He's stretched out on the other side of the plane, one leg on the ground and the other knee folded up to his chest. He's studying something on his phone, frowning—probably Words with Friends if history is any guide. His hair is damp and fluffing up by the second as it dries, one lock continually falling into his face and getting testily pushed aside, over and over.

It would be a tempting sight, if it weren't for the sullen pile that Sam's eyes keep gravitating toward. Even in Madripoor, they'd had to make due. They hadn't been able to find a mask that wouldn't look like a Party City replica. Bucky hadn't volunteered any possible avenues for the authentic regalia then, either.

"Losing your nerve or thinking dirty thoughts?" When Sam looks up, Bucky is staring at him, mouth quirked. Sam wishes he could answer, but he honestly isn't sure. His gut is clenched and twisting, teetering on the border of warmth and dread.

"I hadn't realized you wanted to go through with this," Sam says.

Bucky's half-smile grows into a smirk. "Buddy, you basically dared me into it. Maybe I was thinking I needed to remind you that I can be dangerous."

There's nothing tentative in Bucky's body language. He's not fidgeting or ducking away, and his gaze is steady. Sam studies him, unabashed in his examination, and he's getting nothing but go-signs off of him. Figures that the crypt they wandered into today would decide Bucky, as much as Sam's starting to think that he's getting cold feet.

"Are you sure?"

Bucky's eyes narrow and his face grows a degree cooler. He stands, leaving his phone on the seat next to him, and stalks the few paces over to Sam. He curls his metal hand around the back of Sam's head and presses his thumb into the divot where his skull meets his spine.

"You're the boss here, Cap," Bucky says. Unconvincing, with the way he's looming. "But don't back out on my account."

Sam stares up at him. "I think I need you to say a little bit more about what you're looking for, before we start any scene."

Bucky steps even further into Sam's space, drawing Sam's head to rest against his stomach, the warmth of his body and clean-sweat smell of him filling Sam's nose. It's probably so Bucky doesn't have to make eye contact, but Sam's not complaining about the position—he hooks his arm around Bucky's hips, holding him there.

"There's a whole long list of names I never put on any list, you know that?" Bucky's fingers scratch his head, but he doesn't wait for a response. "I killed a lot of people on away missions, but I killed nearly as many in the bases. Sometimes those were missions too—no better tool to take out HYDRA trash and cut through in-fighting than a soldier who didn't give a shit about anything but his orders. But I killed an awful lot of HYDRA who just had the bad luck to be working on me when the words started to fade, or the chair hadn't totally burned the fight out of me."

There's a fierce joy in his chuckle. "I could be in six-point restraints, and I'd still fucking bite."

Bucky's hand strokes the back of Sam's head with an incongruous tenderness, a few degrees colder than his body. "Any time they touched me, it was Russian roulette and I'm the gun."

Sam's body has decided that this is fucking hot—Bucky's scent thick in his nose, his low voice talking about how dangerous he was. The words drip into Sam's belly like honey, going viscous and sticky.

"I'm your gun now, sweetheart," Bucky says. "It only makes sense you'd want to learn how to aim me."

That's—fuck. Sam hauls Bucky down into his lap hard enough to knock his own breath straight of his lungs. Bucky's laughing as Sam kisses him, burying both hands into Bucky's hair.

Bucky tries to pull away to say something, but Sam follows his mouth, shoves his way in. He wants to lick that menace right out of him and see if Bucky still bites like he used to.

He gets Bucky's hips rolling down into him, and he starts rocking up—Bucky's almost giggling, the fucker, breathless, even as Sam bites underneath his chin, sucks the blood to just under the surface.

"Ya gotov otvechet," Bucky snickers into his ear, and Sam doesn't speak Russian, but he knows what that means. He shoves one hand down the back of Bucky's pants and Bucky laughs harder.

"You little shit," Sam says. "Stop laughing—"

"You make me happy, Samuel," Bucky says in a saccharine singsong. And Sam is enough of a sucker that hearing that winds him up even more, as false as Bucky tried to make it sound.

"You're going to comply for me, huh?"

"And I won't even make you speak Russian to do it—"

"This does not feel like compliance—" Bucky grinds down dirty and sweet, making Sam cut himself off to gasp.

"C'mon guys, I'm back." Torres, long-suffering. Bucky doesn't stop laughing, but he tucks his face into the far side of Sam's neck, like he doesn't want Torres to see. That leaves Sam to make eye contact with a blushing Torres, requested garment bag in one hand and a tray of Tim Hortons cups in the other.

Sam pushes Bucky off of his lap and thanks god he's still in his cup as he relieves Torres of his burden.

"Not another word from you," he tells Bucky as he hands him the coffee marked "extra sugar." Bucky's bright red from laughing, but Sam can see that he's not wearing anything more than boxer briefs. He lets himself look, for just a second, and then goes to put the Winter Soldier gear away so they can keep it together the way home.

"Tomorrow," Bucky says, ignoring his orders. He smirks over the top of his cup. "After the debrief. When you come home."

"I am right here," Torres says, aggrieved. Sam closes his eyes and tries not to think about it.

When you come home, Bucky had said. It's a damn good thing they didn't have much to report about the HYDRA base, because Sam's heart is absolutely not in his debrief. If it weren't for the fact it had been an international mission, Sam would've skipped it entirely—he likes to keep them guessing, remind them that he's not the government's Captain America. But he knows there's a lot of paperwork in crossing borders, even to Canada, so he reports in like a good boy and tries not to remember the gleam in Bucky's eyes as they passed each other on the way to their bedroom's shower.

The NSA liaison looks grave when Sam asks him to trace any large cargo departing from that site in the last thirty years, and the State Department official scolds him for lying to Canadian police about when they were going to go in, and the Air Force envoy makes noises about something. Sam's not paying attention.

They came out to New York to meet with him, because Sam's not above some posturing of his own, but he's got other things to worry about right now.

"Keep me updated," he says, with a note of finality. They all stand, a smattering of salutes, and that's it. Twenty more minutes, and it'll be after.

Sam's blood is already pumping, and he finds himself running through what might happen like he's visualizing a mission. Planning out the moves he's going to make, the objectives he has to fulfill. His fingers itch to check his gear, but that's the point of all this—Bucky is his gear, waiting at home, and the mission is making sure he's ready.

He gets out of the cab at their front door. There are chips in the paint around the lock and at the base of it—every time Bucky walks up, he huffs about it needing a coat of paint. Bucky wants to paint it a cheerful, robin's egg blue.

His hand is steady when he unlocks the door. Behind it, Bucky is waiting for him in the front hall.

A burst of dread slithers down Sam's spine, cold until it settles between his hips, where it warms and goes wanting. Bucky—the Soldier is brutal even in parade rest, his weight even on both of his heavy combat boots, his muscles waiting for command. He holds his head in the low predatory posture of a big cat, his hair just long enough to fall forward into his face. He's not wearing the goggles but the mask is over his mouth, his eyes blacked out with warpaint.

Sam lets himself stare, lets the fear wash through him and leave him cool and in control. He's not here to ambush Sam—he's here to report, because Sam's in charge. The Soldier could tear him limb from limb, is armed with at least two firearms that Sam can see and probably half a dozen knives. The pouches around his waist bulge lightly—if he's carrying the cherry bombs, he's equipped to flatten the whole goddamn block.

But he waits here for Sam, steady under the appraisal, eyes unfocused and empty. It's broad daylight, but the Soldier is matte black on every part of him — his clothes, his paint, his mask, his arm— and he devours all the light.

"Soldier," Sam says, hoarse. He clears his throat.

"Ready to comply," he says. It's Bucky's voice filtered through broken glass and kerosene, and it makes Sam's spine straighten up. He has to be worthy of this.

Sam lets the door close behind him and steps forward. The Soldier's eyes track his movement, but he's otherwise perfectly still. When Sam gets close, he smells dust from however long this gear had been waiting, iron and cordite, cheap industrial soap. Sam reaches out and runs a lock of the Soldier's hair between his finger and thumb, and finds none of Bucky's normal hair product, just squeaky clean.

If this was a normal scene, he'd maybe have to do something, say something. Acknowledge all this effort. Instead, he walks past the Soldier.

"Come," he says. He doesn't hear anything behind him, but he knows Bucky's following. He goes into the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water. When he turns around, the Soldier has appeared in this room, unchanged—as if he needn't have walked.

A giddy part of Sam considers ordering the Soldier to do the dishes, because Bucky had left them undone like a slob, but his dick vetoes that plan.

"Kneel," he says, pointing to a spot next to the kitchen table, and the Soldier does it, slowly, one leg at a time. It's fascinating to watch him move. He's perfectly obedient, but there's no submission in him. He feels barely contained, like a hurricane lashed up in cotton rags, and every movement feels pushed through countless layers of restraint. If he's pushed too hard, the whole artifice of control will snap, and Sam can feel the tension.

Sam drinks his water and lets himself really savor this.

"If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?" he asks. He relaxes a little—he's not the caged tiger here—leaning back against the counter and letting his free hand fall between his legs, just letting his dick know he remembers it.

The Soldier stares like the question is incomprehensible, gaze never wavering from where it's fixed just below Sam's eyes

"I asked you a question, Soldier."

The Soldier looks up, meets Sam's gaze for less than a breath, a startling familiar blue. His left hand settles on his sidearm, for just a moment, before returning to clasp the other behind his back.

Sam pushes off the counter and taps the kitchen table. "Put it here."

The Soldier unholsters the weapon, and without rising, places it so that the handle faces Sam. Sam picks it up, trigger finger resting on the guard. He's not sure if it is loaded and even though the image of stuffing it down Bucky's beautiful throat flashes through his mind, he's gotta be damned sure before he tries that.

"What's your plan B?" he asks, and the Soldier points, and Sam has him disarm himself again. They go through several other guns, and the predicted half-dozen knives. The light from their window gleams off of the steel. It shines in a way that nothing in the Soldier's uniform is allowed to, now that the arm has blackened.

Finally, when Sam asks how the Soldier would kill him, he simply raises his left arm and makes a fist.

"Maybe I should ask you to take that off, too," Sam muses, tapping the barrel of the gun against the table. He sees a shudder run down Bucky and he can't restrain his grin—a tiny movement of Bucky breaking character.

"Nah," Sam says. "You could kill me anyway, huh? You could kill me with your teeth, with your flesh hand. You could kill me any number of ways."

The Soldier's weight shifts, from knee to knee. Sam wonders if the cup is starting to hurt.

"You got something to say, cyborg?"

Bucky meets his eyes full on when he says, again, "Ready to comply."

Sam's dick fucking throbs. Bucky has done all sorts of things that Sam has told him to, he's killed people, he's bent over, he's apologized, he's passed a wrench, and picked up dinner. But all that time, Bucky has never seemed so fucking angry about agreement, so close to snapping the hand that feeds. Bucky could kill Sam by accident, he could rip his throat out with two vibranium fingers—but he wouldn't. He'd never. Not Sam.

The gun clunks on the table, next to the rest of them, but the Soldier's eyes don't deviate. He doesn't even look down when Sam gets his dick out. Like a well-trained dog, he keeps his eyes on his master. Sam strokes himself, smearing pre-come down his dick, and holds it. Bucky's breath whistles ever so slightly through the mask and Sam can't help himself—he closes the distance between them.

He rests his dick on the black kevlar, leaving a shiny smear of pre-come glistening on the surface. Finally, he can see the whites of Bucky's eyes, straining to see Sam's cock so close to his face. Sam strokes himself again, trying to squeeze more out—he wants to mark Bucky, like he's the dog, make his claim on this weapon obvious.

"What do you want?" Sam says, his voice rough in his own ears.

"Ready to comply," Bucky says, but Sam can hear the strain it. Sam uses his dick to slap the mask—it's rough against the sensitive skin, and he grunts at the contact. Does it again.

Bucky swallows hard and leans forward, pushing in. He's sweating, now—Sam can see it at his hairline, the only visible pale skin on his body.

"They never trained you to beg, huh? You never had anything you wanted to beg for before," Sam says. He doesn't want to come like this, but he can't stop touching himself, his want boiling under his skin. "Will you bite if I let you suck it?"

"No," Bucky says—too fast, eager in a way ill-fitting with all the utilitarian brutality. Sam slaps him with it again, letting the head of his cock run across the bridge of Bucky's nose, smearing his greasepaint.

"Are you sure? They told me you bite."

"Not you," he says. "I promise, I—"

Sam grabs a handful of his hair, shakes his head hard. Bucky's eyes roll back to look at him.

"What good is a promise from you, huh? Why would I even want a promise from a thing like you?"

Bucky's doing an admirable job of holding it together, but at that his eyes squeeze shut and his hips shift forward in an ungraceful hunch, and Sam feels invincible—Bucky could kill him a thousand ways, Bucky could fake being the Soldier for his worst enemy, but he can't keep it together when Sam is taunting him.

But while he's still savoring his victory, Bucky knocks his legs out from under him and Sam lands hard on the kitchen floor, pain shooting up his back. He bits his lip hard enough he tastes blood.

"Fuck—" Sam says, his heart-racing, and Bucky pins him, sitting heavily on his hips and with his metal forearm across Sam's throat. His eyes are wild, unfocused, and for a second Sam thinks he triggered him somehow, that this had gone wrong—but then he realizes that Bucky's other hand is fumbling with his belt, and wriggling to get his tac pants down over his hips.

Sam laughs and spits, blood and saliva—it drips down Bucky's mask, joining the silvery remnants of his cock. "This what compliance looks like to you, Soldat?"

Bucky shakes, swaying for a moment, before rising up enough to pull his pants down his thighs. Sam can't move, not against the steady pressure on his throat, but he wishes he had a better fucking view. He's not going to last, and he doesn't think Bucky is, either.

The first time Bucky tries to sink down on Sam's dick, it slips, Sam's cock sliding between his thighs and nudging against his balls—Sam can feel the slick of lubricant, which some more responsible part of his mind thinks is a relief. The second time, though, Bucky bears down and takes him, slamming himself down hard enough that Sam's going to be left with bruises.

He thrusts up with all his strength, trying to jolt Bucky out of his rhythm, but Bucky pushes past it, ridding him in precisely the way he wants to—inexorable. Sam pushes his arm away and Bucky lets him to do that, bracing himself with his palms flat against the kitchen floor. Sam can't see his face, nothing more than his eyes—far away and hazy, chasing his own pleasure. Sam yanks his hair hard enough that some strands come out between his fingers and Bucky sucks in a breath, eyes sharpening on Sam. Sam leans up enough to kiss the mask, licking the rough texture and letting his tongue explore the divots and lines, catching on rough plastic. This close, he can hear Bucky's harsh breath, the almost-unvoiced whines he makes.

"C'mon, Soldier," Sam says. His fingers find where the mask clasps on the back of Bucky's head, and he pulls it tighter. "C'mon"

When Bucky comes, it feels like a vice around Sam's cock, and Sam lets himself go, jerking rough and arrhythmic up into him once, twice more, and filling him up.

After a moment, Sam pries his eyes open and looks at Bucky— his face is blank, eyes distant. Sam unclasps the mask and tosses it aside, and there he is. His face is incongruously soft underneath the paint, mouth red and glistening, color high in his cheeks.

Bucky groans and lets himself relax, collapsing on top of Sam, Sam's cock softening in his ass. Sam lets his touches go tender, and he pushes his smile against Bucky's sweaty cheek. He knows he's smearing greasepaint all over them both, but he doesn't care.

Bucky's chest is heaving like he's just fought off an army, and Sam can feel the post-orgasm twitching in his thighs and back.

"How was that?" Sam knows the answer, but he wants to hear it anyway.

Bucky huffs and blinks his eyes open. This close, Sam can see every beloved smile-line before his lips even move.

"I was worried you were going to go off before you even got in me, when I knocked you down."

"It was a close one," Sam says. He knows he sounds smug as hell, but he thinks he earned it.

"I had to prevent you from coming on the mask," Bucky says. "You know how hard that thing is to clean?"

"I guess I'm gonna find out, because we are definitely doing that."

Bucky laughs again. He sounds exhausted, and he's giving no indication he's planning on moving. Unfortunately, Sam is not strong enough to pick them both up from flat on his back— but he's fine with staying here awhile. He strokes the soft hairs at the back of Bucky's neck and enjoys both the solid weight of him, pressing him down, and the perfect knowledge that he'd move if Sam only says the word.