quigonejinn: (avengers - never change your mind)
[personal profile] quigonejinn
Premises of this fic:

* Bucky comes back from the Hydra isolation chamber with serious goddamn damage. In fact, Hydra's work on him is the base that the Red Room uses in Winter Soldier-rizing him.

* Blowjobs.




I.

Your best friend comes back from the factory camp, walks thirty-five miles next to you, and you aren't sure what is wrong with him: his face is a strange color. They keep him in the infirmary for days, and after that, the counter-intelligence team spends a lot of time with him. When he comes out, he is starving. Pale. Eating and drinking everything in sight isn't unusual; you see it plenty with the other men who survived, but it's still a relief when you and him and a few other guys get a weekend pass and Bucky gets drunk enough to go a little legless. You remember this from Brooklyn; you remember this from before, and you half-prop, half-carry him upstairs to the rooms above the pub.

It's easier now, to say the least. You roll him out of his jacket. You put his hat on the dresser, and he goes into the bed easily enough, but when you straighten up, he catches you by the front of your uniform and kisses you. Hot. Wet. His dog tags clink when he shifts to pull you onto him, and it's your first kiss with tongue and teeth and someone's fingers in your hair. You had only been vaguely aware that it was possible for a man to kiss another man that way.

You yank away.

"I'll do it for you," he says, breathing hard, hand on the back of your neck, and his eyes are very, very bright.

"You've had too much to drink," you say, pulling away, still in your uniform jacket, and he falls back on the pillow, smiling in a way that makes your heart hurt.

You make it to the door, hand on the doorknob, before you turn back.

When the two of you were boys, Bucky would play a game where he would do something that was not qui --

II.

"How does it work?"

"You should take your jacket off," he says, but first, you take your hat off, and then your jacket. Without quite knowing why, you roll up your sleeves, and meanwhile, Bucky undoes his belt and slides his pants and underwear down to his ankles. He sits down on the side of the bed, and you come around and stand between his legs.

"You should get down," he says, quietly, and when you do, he kisses you again. He puts his hand on the side of your face, pulls back, looks at you, and then kisses you for a third time. This time, he is undoing the buttons at your shirt. First button, then second button, all the third, and he slides his hand inside your collar so that his hand lies by your throat. You can feel his fingers on your pulse, and he breaks off the kiss and pulls your head down to his crotch.

What does a dick taste like? Skin, at first. Maybe the smell of soap, though you don't taste it, and Bucky reaches down and uses his fingers to show you how to wrap your lips over your teeth, and after that, once Bucky gets hard and stays hard, you fall into a rhythm. You haven't been a soldier very long, but you know that the easiest way to make something less than desirable pass is to make a routine out of it. Keep doing it long enough, and the mind stops thinking about the details: when Bucky touches his hand back to the side of your cheek, you jump because you'd almost forgotten what you were doing. It brings you back to the moment of being on your knees in your dress shirt, sucking his dick.

Both of you can hear singing, drinking, clinking glasses downstairs, and you've started to wonder about whether the door is locked when Bucky makes a noise in his throat; his hips jump, and you make a noise in your throat because it doesn't quite feel right. He moves his hand from your cheek the back of your neck, and he starts to rock against you. You make more noise, trying to figure out how to breathe, what rhythm you should follow under his hand and distract yourself with, and he puts his other hand against your jaw, towards the back, to get you to open your mouth wider. Long strokes alternate with periods of short ones, and, eventually, you stop trying and let him move your mouth. At one point, he pulls almost all the way out, and you open your eyes for a second before shutting them immediately again.

He comes with a sigh and a groan; you swallow out of reflex, because you have no idea what else is possible when a man comes inside your mouth, and you wipe your mouth afterwards with your hands, careful not to get any of it on your shirt or your trousers.

When the two of you were boys, Bucky would play a game where he would do something that was not quite right, and the decision would fall to you whether to play alon --

Bucky joins the Howling Commandos.

Bucky, you had not been aware, is a first-class sniper.

III.


When the two of you were boys, Bucky would play a game where he would do something that was not quite right, and the decision would fall to you whether to play along or to set things right. Nothing that seems so bad compared to what you have seen in the past few days, absolutely trivial, but it was important to you then: Bucky would steal a handful of chewing gum from a store and give you half, but would you go back to the store and return it? He would push the question. What about this comic book? What about this set of beautiful drawing pencils? The two of you would accidentally break a window while playing, and Bucky would grin and suggest the two of you run even though he knew you wanted to go in and confess and apologize and do chores to work it off.

One day, when the fight is essentially over and the Hydra agents are coming out of their tank with their arms over their heads, Bucky blows the brains out of two of them from his post, a hundred yards back in a tree. Afterwards, when he comes trotting out to take a look, he looks up from the bodies and says to you, calmly, without changing expression, "I saw one of them going for his gun."

"And the other?"

"Missed."

You look at the other men in the unit; half of them won't look you in the eye.

One night after that, when the whole unit is lying in the mist and the scrub, trying to catch a little sleep before first light when you'll make a move against the installation, Bucky reaches over and puts his hand inside your sleeping bag, then slides his hand down to your dick. The kid from Fresno is four feet away. A quarter of the men, the ones who drew short straws from your fist, are standing watch. You hold very still, and he slowly unzips your trousers and reaches inside and close around your dick.

You look over, and Bucky is looking at you with firelight glinting in his eyes.

"Go to sleep, Bucky," you say, as calmly as you can, and turn away.

At breakfast three hours later, in the gray half-light, Bucky laughs, hums under his breath as he checks his rifle, and is as cheerful as if going out for a night on the town.

IV.

The last straw comes on a bright autumn day near some fields that are never going to be harvested, and again, there are going to be prisoners. A handful, not a terrible number. You and the Commandos cornered them in the basement, and they came out easily. They're tied up and sitting next to the truck, waiting for transport, and you're out in the field with Falsworth, trying to work out the distance and direction the next target because he has the best map-reading skills of anybody in the unit.

Then, there's a shot. You swear under your breath, pull your gun, and grab the shield; Falsworth gets his own gun, and when you get to the front of the farmhouse, you find that Bucky has shot one of the prisoners. He still has the pistol in his hand; the rest of the men are standing around in a state of shock, and the rest of the prisoners have worked themselves in a gibbering terror and are trying to crawl under the truck.

"What happened?"

Bucky looks up and over, slowly, but doesn't say anything. You get down on your knees next to the prisoner, who has been shot in the chest. Blood is pumping out, pouring out over his chest and soaking his uniform and his bound hands, and when you pry the gas mask off, so that the poor asshole doesn't have to die in it, you see that he is, maybe, optimistically, sixteen. He has pale hair, dark eyes, and you don't know a lot of German, but you're pretty sure that you recognize a kid begging for his mother.

How long does it take a sixteen year old to die from being shot in the chest? A lot longer than it seems it should. He dies in your arms, soaking the front of your uniform, and it doesn't particularly make you feel better when you stand up, wipe your hands off, yell for Bucky to come with you into the farmhouse, and see him flinch. At least he has the grace to holster his pistol. Has he even answered you about what happened? Did anyone answer you?

When the two of you get into the farmhouse, you make a point of shutting the door, but it doesn't really matter because all the windows are blown out anyways.

"What is wrong with you?" you shout. The words explode out of you.

Bucky considers you for a moment, a long, long moment, before saying, "I don't know."

It isn't much of an answer, and he knows it's not: in three long strides, you close the distance between the two of you to demand a better one, you get a reminder of just how much bigger than you are than him. You have a good five, six inches in height, at least that again in breadth of the shoulders, and at least fifty pounds in muscle. Bucky is distinctly shorter; he has to tilt his face up to look at you, and he does. The two of you look at each other for another long, long moment; the farmhouse is ruined. There are holes in the roof; the windows are blown out, and all of the furniture is wrecked. The front of your uniform is soaked with the kid's blood, and there is enough that it hangs in the air.

Bucky palms your dick through your uniform.

You deck him hard enough that he goes down onto the floor like a sack of -- like a sack of someone who used to be your best friend.

There is blood running from the corner of his mouth, and he rolls over onto his back; he brings a hand up to his mouth, takes it away and looks at the blood, and then sighs and leans back and the smile on his face that would make your heart hurt if you didn't suddenly feel incredibly, unbelievably old and tired.


V.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Did you read the report?" You do not know for sure that there was a report, but you suspect that there was, and when you look at Peggy and see the way that her expression tightens, just infinitesimally, that you were right. There was a report, and both of you know it had nothing to do with the bald facts of the train, the mission, the events, all in neat, tidy statements.

"Yes," she says, after the barest pause.

VI.


When the two of you were boys, Bucky would play a game where he would do something that was not quite right, and the decision would fall to you whether to play along or to set things right. When the two of you were men, Bucky played a game where he did things that he -- that may not have been what he wanted, and you know, very clearly, very exactly the degree to which you, Steve Rogers, were completely unable to set it right.








Like the rest of my writing these days, this is basically taking things that [personal profile] destronomics sends me in Gchat, deleting the line breaks, and sticking in some section breaks. All the actual sex is her idea, as is the kid from Fresno. She also set me up to write Cap decking Bucky in much the same way that Bucky set himself up for a decking.

The shooting of POW's comes from Band of Brothers, obviously. And I can't lie. I wrote this while listening to Lana Del Rey singing about being born to die. ~ sometimes love is not enough!

(no subject)

Date: 2012-04-19 07:13 am (UTC)
destronomics: (Default)
From: [personal profile] destronomics
I pretty much always love the little bits of their history you tease out, even when you wreck whatever they had left in the process. There's always a weight to the relationships you destroy, friendships or otherwise. So, yay, I guess?

And now I'm going to quote your own lines back at you because I've run out of words.

it's still a relief when you and him and a few other guys get a weekend pass and Bucky gets drunk enough to go a little legless

it's your first kiss with tongue and teeth and someone's fingers in your hair.

When the two of you were boys, Bucky would play a game where he would do something that was not quite right, and the decision would fall to you whether to play along or to set things right.

How long does it take a sixteen year old to die from being shot in the chest? A lot longer than it seems it should.

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