hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Welcome to Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves 2: Electric Boogaloo. AKA the seamy sexual-violence-and-violent-sex underbelly of Captain America fandom, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

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Round 2 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 3.

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Oh, please continue. This is the filth I live for.

Author, hnnnngh! THIS IS EVERYTHING AND IT IS BEAUTIFUL.

(Author anon here) I absolutely love your idea, and I'm stealing it for a later instalment!

Sam had gone out to fetch dinner, while Bucky had shown Steve his book. He sat cross legged on the floor beside Steve, flicking through the pages, pointing out some of his favourite facts. Steve sat quietly, giving him complete attention. Bucky could only assume he was trying not to think about what would come next.

Once Bucky had talked Steve through all of the book he had already read, he showed him how to get a good view out of the window.
"No... see, if you twist, that's right, and rest your neck there..." He slowly talked Steve through the process. Steve was a little taller than him, and the movement was awkward, but soon Steve was able to see the view just like he could.

"You like it?" He asked softly. Steve smiled.
"Yeah, I do Bucky. You can get a really good view of the sky..." His voice trailed off, and he looked at Bucky once more, losing the angle he had managed. "You sit there often?"
"Sometimes." Bucky admitted. "It's easier for me, I'm not as wide-shouldered..." He took Steve's place, demonstrating how he could tuck against the window pane. Steve nodded, and fell quiet.

When Sam got back, they ate dinner. Bucky tried not to be too greedy, knowing Steve would have to pay for it, but he ate enough. Not eating would be ungrateful, and he didn't want to anger Sam, not when soon he would be watching him and Steve. He needed Sam to be in a good mood, to be willing to share his preferences.

Dinner was eaten in silence. When it was done, Steve looked at him, and cleared his throat.
"You want to come to our room?"

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded. He was led through to a room dominated by a large double bed, with soft blue sheets. It reminded him of Pierce's bed, and as he thought that he imagined the blue sheets splashed with Steve's hot blood. He nearly retched.

Steve looked around, frowning a little in consideration. After a couple of moments he nodded.
"Yes..." He mumbled to himself, then cleared his throat. "Bucky, how about you sit here, beside the door?" He asked, moving a chair from the corner over to next to the door. "Then just head out when you've seen enough."

Bucky sat.

Sam entered the room a little later, glancing at Bucky in concern and then sitting on the bed beside Steve. Steve kept sneaking glances at Bucky, uncertainty written on his face. Sam leaned in and whispered into his ear and Steve smiled and nodded, leaning to nuzzle Sam's neck.

Bucky stayed quiet. He wasn't here to talk, he was here to watch and to learn.

The touches from the couple on the bed were near chaste, gentle nuzzling and kisses pressed to fingers and foreheads. Bucky had never had someone be this gentle with him, not from Hydra.

"Love you." Steve murmured softly, and Bucky felt something click. He had had handlers who wanted him to tell them he loved them, or at least part of them. This was where he had gone wrong. He watched the kisses between them continue, still gentle, slowly growing more passionate as they glanced over at him less frequently.

That was how this worked then. Steve pretended he wanted it, said thank you, said he loved him, and Sam was happy. Sam would be willing to give him what he asked for if he played it like this. In a way he was grateful. It meant Steve was spared some of the pain. Pretending to want it might be humiliating, but it hurt a lot less than the alternative.

Bucky bit his lip, realising how stupid he had been. He had gone in entirely wrong. No wonder Sam had refused him. He used to be able to read his handler, but now he had made a mistake. He had said that he would do it, but not that he wanted it. Sam wanted to be seen as a giving man, a kind and patient one, and that meant he needed to hear that the other person wanted it.

Steve leaned in so that he could press a kiss to Sam's shoulder, and Sam's hands ran up Steve's side. That was Steve's sign to surrender. He understood that after a moment, and that he should leave, that he should get out of their way. With one final glance at the two of them, he turned and walked away.

He pulled the door closed behind him, and slumped to the floor, straining his ears to listen to the noises from the room, the whispered confessions, the murmurs and other sounds. That way if Steve called for help, he could get there instantly. He thought of his mistakes with Sam, how he had ruined it. If the chance came to do it again, he would not do it wrong. Not again.

...buckyyyyyyyy...

*quiet moaning*

This fill is being continued in Round 3, at the thread located here:

http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=2968930#cmt2968930

Ahhh, this is so awful, I love it!

Oh nooooooooo

...

Oh yesssssssss. *evil grin* Go glad to give you some inspiration! *keeps biting nails*

Oh gods oh gods oh GODS

*flails arms in a panic* I just ... Bucky ... Bucky no, honey, no. Please.

Only ONE MORE PART?!?!?!? *runs in panicked circles*

Bucky tried not to think about where Natasha was, or what she was doing. He tried to behave as if nothing was different, as if today was a normal day.

But a normal day meant the ache in his chest growing hour by hour, his milk coming in for his Natashenka. A normal day ended on Natasha's couch, letting his little girl and the pump drain him dry so he could go to bed with Steve without giving himself away.

He didn't think about it, and didn't think about it. The end of the day came, and he headed downstairs like he always did, except that he didn't get out of the apartment before Steve said his name.

Bucky stopped at the door and closed his eyes without turning back.

"She's not there," Steve said quietly, gently, like he was trying not to touch something painful. Like Bucky might really have believed this was a normal day.

"I know." Bucky stayed perfectly still, not shifting his weight, not opening his eyes.

He heard Steve come a half-step closer behind him, still well out of reach. "She won't be back tonight. Midday tomorrow at the very earliest."

Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Buck," Steve said, his voice wavering. It made Bucky hurt, sharpened the ache in his chest almost unbearably. Steve needed him, even if he didn't need what Bucky had to give. "Please, just come to bed."

Bucky couldn't restrain his flinch. He reached out, opening the door before he let himself think of it. "I will. I always come back, Steve. I just--I need..."

"She's not there," Steve said. "Bucky, I'm right here."

If Bucky told him, there were a dozen ways Steve could help him relieve the pressure in his chest, or just stay out of the way and not be hurt by whatever he was imagining.

But telling Steve meant admitting this as a weakness, showing him something vulnerable and having Steve see it as something broken, because to Steve those were the same thing. And in the end, there was still enough wounded animal in Bucky to choose hurting Steve over seeing himself hurt in Steve's eyes.

"Twenty minutes," Bucky said, and stepped out the door.

Steve didn't so much as shift his weight or raise a hand to stop him.

***

It took more than twenty minutes. Alone with the pump, acutely aware of how far away Natasha was and that his milk might be no use to her, he couldn't seem to make it let down. He had to turn up the pump to something brutal halfway through, and it still took twenty-five minutes to be sure he was dry.

After that there was no point in hurrying. He'd already made himself a liar.

He transferred the milk from the bottles to the freezer bags Natasha had left out for him, neatly labeling each and stashing them in the fridge next to the growing supply. He washed out the bottles and tubing, set it all out to dry before morning.

He let himself back into his and Steve's apartment thirty-four minutes after he walked out. The apartment was dark and silent, and the absence of surprise was a weight in the pit of his stomach. He didn't turn on any lights, just went into the bedroom and stripped. He crawled into the empty bed, and pushed the covers down to leave his nakedness on display for when Steve came in.

He slept through the night without being disturbed, and woke up alone in the morning. He had been dreaming of Natashenka, hurt in training but refusing to cry, and his chest ached with fullness. He saw when he sat up that he'd leaked all over the sheets.

He stripped the bed and threw the sheets in the wash before he put last night's clothes back on and went down to Natasha's again.

***

Bucky didn't see Steve that morning; he'd taken Wanda off somewhere for one-on-one training. Bucky didn't let himself wonder whether Steve had deliberately taken away the next-most-consoling person for Bucky to try to look after in Natasha's absence. He didn't want to think it, but Steve had also taken himself away, so clearly Bucky was being punished.

He kept close to the rest of the team, letting Rhodes and Vision take turns declaring drills to practice. After a while Rhodes abandoned his suit, declaring it time to put in some training for "totally fucked up contingencies." He and Bucky and Sam took on simulated attacks orchestrated by Vision.

No one remarked on how often Bucky threw himself in the way of an attack to shield the other two. He was faster, stronger, quicker to heal; they might not have noticed anything unusual. He was only taking Steve's role, really. There was nothing incriminating about it.

Bucky slipped away in the afternoon to pump again, another joyless and slightly painful session alone on Natasha's couch. It was a stark contrast to the pleasure of working with even a subset of his team, a mockery of what the milk ought to mean.

He sensed someone outside when he was about to open the door to leave. For a moment he let himself imagine that it would be Steve waiting for him, to catch him... being exactly where Steve would know he was going. As if Steve would stoop to catching him. Steve could find him any time he wanted, but Steve just kept backing off.

Bucky stopped for a moment, leaning his forehead against the door while he pushed away the imagined sight of Steve's face--disappointed or coolly furious or sheepish and apologetic....

It wouldn't be any of those. It wouldn't be Steve. Steve would chase him to the ends of the earth to save him, but he wouldn't walk across a room to ask Bucky for something.

Except he had asked last night, and Bucky had walked out.

Bucky thumped his head against the door a couple of times, realizing, not for the first time, that he and Steve really did deserve each other. With that familiar bleak humor to brace him, he gave up and stepped back to open the door.

Sam was standing on the other side of the corridor, leaning at ease against the wall. He looked Bucky up and down--there was nothing to see, Bucky had taken the precaution of wearing his most camouflaging hoodie today--and said lightly, "You know, usually it's the person outside the door who knocks."

"Steve told you where you could find me." Bucky wasn't going to pretend this wasn't about what it was about.

Sam tilted his head, admitting the charge. "You want to talk about it?"

Bucky considered it for half a second. He could tell Sam what was going on, what he was doing with Natasha, what he wanted with the rest of the team. He could invite Sam in for a glass of milk.

And no matter what Sam's reaction was, it would be just a foretaste of what Bucky was in for, because once Sam knew, Steve would have to know too. Sam was Steve's friend first, and Bucky had no claim on his loyalty except through Steve. He might not actually tell Steve himself, but neither would he let Bucky keep his own secrets in peace.

Bucky missed Natasha like breath knocked from his lungs.

He shook his head in mute answer to Sam's question. "You want to tell me where Steve slept last night?"

Sam snorted. "My couch, if you want to call that sleeping. He was tossing and turning all damn night, except when he was muttering to himself. Or pacing. Or--punching things, maybe? There were some thumps, woke me up every time he started that."

"Gesturing," Bucky diagnosed, with a weird displaced sense of fondness. "If he was really punching he'd have broken things. But sometimes when he's arguing with somebody in his head he starts gesturing to make his points. You never caught him doing that before?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't think he was imagining arguing with you much when we were looking for you."

Bucky shook his head again. "Idiot."

Sam didn't argue with that, but after a few seconds he said, "So I didn't get much sleep last night because Steve was on my couch arguing with you, and you don't look like you're having a great day, so..."

Sam gestured down the corridor in the direction of his own apartment. "How many Star Trek movies do you think we can watch before we pass out?

"We're skipping the first one," Bucky said. He needed to be close to somebody, and Sam was offering, and letting him keep his own secrets after all, for as long as he managed to keep his mouth shut.

"There was no first one," Sam agreed, and that was that.

***

They were halfway through the one with the whales when the screen froze, and Kirk and Spock disappeared into an alert. Bucky glimpsed Incoming call, Clint Barton, and he felt himself turn to ice in the fraction of a second before Barton's face appeared on the screen.

"No, she's okay!" Barton yelped immediately, his gaze falling on Bucky and whatever Bucky's expression was just then. "She's here, she's in one piece, we're coming home."

Bucky exhaled and folded forward to bury his face in his hands, shielding his chest from Barton and Sam's view. It was getting close to bedtime. He was achingly full, and Natasha was on her way home.

"She just, uh..."

Bucky looked up to search Barton's face, holding his hunched-over position.

Barton grimaced. "She took a pretty bad knock on the head. Had her checked out before I let her in the quinjet--no fracture, no internal bleeds--but she's got post-concussion like a motherfucker. She's already thrown up twice and she can't really move or pick her head up or be exposed to bright light."

"And you decided a long flight was a good idea?" Sam demanded.

Bucky closed his hands into fists at the thought of someone keeping Natasha away from him when she was hurt, making her recover in some undisclosed location without him.

"Nat decided," Barton said, shaking his head. "Both times she threw up were because I told her we needed to stay put and she wouldn't quit arguing. And I know my way around a head injury, I know the only thing that's gonna help is rest--but she's not gonna rest if she's freaking out about wanting to go home. So I'm bringing her home. She says she'll feel better after a night in her own bed."

Bucky's chest throbbed, and he felt the trickle of milk sliding down the undercurve of his pecs. He was leaking on both sides at just the thought of putting Natasha to bed when she was hurt, feeding her and comforting her.

He searched Barton's expression for any sign that he knew, but he looked back steadily, nothing new or unsettled in his eyes. "She said she needs you to wait for her. Tuck her in."

There was no insinuation even in those words, nothing from Barton to indicate that he found it strange or shameful for Natasha to want that, for Bucky to give it.

Well, Barton was a parent, after all. Maybe he understood.

Bucky nodded. "I'll wait. However long it takes, I'll wait for her."

"Couple hours, tops," Barton said, nodding like he'd known Bucky would say exactly that. "I'm having to maneuver around rough weather so she doesn't get sick again, but unless Thor's in town and actively fucking with me it shouldn't be more than two hours. I'll call you if I have to detour us up the jet stream or something."

Bucky nodded. "Barton--thanks."

"Not much I wouldn't do for Nat," Barton said, like it was simple. "Over and out."

The longer it takes Steve to find out, the more I am filled with dread and glee!

Bucky, cuddle bug, TELLLLLLLLLL HHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMM. *flail*

(OP) I keep going to read thinking, this time it's going to blow up, and then things will be okay, and then it keeps NOT BLOWING UP and it's driving me insane but in a good way. Soooo much tensions! Also I make this little noise every time you mention leaking and it's starting to get embarrassing.

I like your trashy thinking :) Like maybe Bucky just grins and bears it because hey, at least Steve is enjoying himself. Or maybe Bucky feels some pleasure through all the pain and he's like 'well, might as well try to enjoy it.'

OP Here. I don't mind other iterations of Trash Island, friends!
This being broadcast to a normal, non Hydra run world could be great because it could be like that movie Untraceable where the murderer is filming what he does and puts it on Youtube :D And all of these people are going online and watching it even though it's basically Cap being raped, etc.

This is really, really good. Thanks for sharing.

… so yeah, I couldn't leave well enough alone. Rather different tone to this part, but I think that's appropriate given the context. Also, I really like alliteration, evidently. (and parentheses)

-----

I Never Told You To Love Me
(continuation of Thing Of Me As Someone Who Bleeds)

Steve understands. Sometimes he doesn't make it. Sometimes the pain just doesn't let him unlock his atrophying muscles in time to open the cupboard, retrieve the bedpan, and settle back down into position. Sometimes his chest, his abdomen, his arms (real and surreal) just don't all work in tandem. Sometimes he needs to lean on a stronger body, a sturdier chest, a steadier shoulder. Sometimes his body betrays him.

(Sometimes he betrays his body.)

He is patted on the back, rubbed on the shoulders (real and surreal), assured that everything's okay, no need for embarrassment. He is maneuvered out of bed with more care than he's ever taken in the endeavour himself; not one injury is jostled, not a single sore spot unduly disturbed. He's folded into a wheelchair, a stage-side theatre seat from which to watch as Steve carries out his own rituals: stripping the bed, stowing the soiled linens in a plastic bag for washing. Producing clean sheets from a drawer, like a magician drawing handkerchiefs from his pocket. Smoothing the wrinkles, drawing the corners tight. Replacing the pillowcase, though it has been spared the mess. The bed is fresh and dry again, a clean slate, a blank canvas.

Then there is a shower, gleaming tiles and steaming water. His damp clothes are removed and placed in the hamper. A wet washcloth curves around his sticky, soiled body, swaths of clean skin revealed beneath his grime. Steve's hands are sure, unhesitating. He is redressed in warm, dry flannel, covering him where he is vulnerable. The bright fluorescent light overhead flickers, makes him squint, like the groundhog in the February sun. He sees his shadow. Six more weeks of winter.

(And six more, and six more, and…)

His stomach twists, right on schedule. His grunt of pain is unfeigned. His brow knits, his jaw tightens, his teeth clench. Steve notices, of course. Steve misses nothing.

(And everything.)

He is wheeled from the washroom hastily, so as not to prolong the discomfort of staying upright. Settled back into bed, reverently as a body into a coffin. Another wet washcloth is produced from nowhere, pressed tenderly to his forehead. Steve's eyes are bright and trained on him. They are alone. They are two against the world, fighting against the limits of an ailing body. They are partners in crime. (Knowing and unknowing.)

Would he like Sam to be called? No. Would he like some water or applesauce or tea? No thank you. Would he like to watch television to take his mind off the pain? …okay.

Will you stay with me? Of course. Always.

Two against the world. No intrusions. Nothing but him and Steve, and pain, and Steve's gentle hands cradling his own (real and surreal). Who needs spring when winter is this warm?

---
(…sorry)

Adorable!

Bucky walked out and Sam didn't try to stop him. There were two non-emergency landing sites at HQ; Barton would doubtless put down in the one just outside Medical. No matter what Natasha said, she should be rechecked by Avengers' doctors after the flight.

He stood at the edge of the landing site, and then paced, striding as slowly as he could make himself from corner to corner of the tarmac, still minimally lit. He did not fold his arms; it would only draw attention to his chest, and he didn't think he could bear any touch there anyway. He passed rapidly from being ready to express milk to being desperate. The ache in his chest turned sharp, and milk leaked from him in random spurts, soaking his undershirt.

His hoodie was black, at least, and no one would be looking at him anyway. Everyone would be focused on Natasha. As soon as she got here. Less than two hours, Barton had said, fifty-three minutes ago.

Bucky turned to pace out the eastern border of the tarmac and nearly stumbled at the sight of Steve, planted like a tree at the northeast corner. Bucky walked a few strides on autopilot, to keep from falling down or showing fear, but he ground to a halt thirty meters short of Steve.

Steve held his ground for a few seconds--long enough for Bucky to feel another useless jet of milk squirt out, wetness rolling down his ribs. Long enough for Bucky to wonder if they were both just going to stand there staring until something interrupted.

Then Steve looked down and shook his head. He put his chin up and started walking in long, brisk strides.

Bucky took a hesitant step forward and then another. He stopped again when Steve was still a meter away, and Steve stopped too, not requiring Bucky to ask him not to come closer.

Bucky wanted to kiss him, wanted to cling to him, but it was all he could do not to curl in and rock around the frustrated pain in his chest. He couldn't bear Steve to brush up against him, or to want something else from him than the comfort of closeness. Even if he could feed Steve now, he wouldn't. This was for Natasha. He had promised to wait for Natasha.

"I just want to wait with you," Steve said quietly. "We should talk later, but--you don't have to be alone right now. Okay?"

Bucky swallowed and nodded, forced out a single word through his painfully tight throat. "Thanks."

Steve nodded. He circled around to Bucky's left side, leaving a body-width between their shoulders.

Bucky closed his eyes and took a careful breath and then started walking again, trying to keep his stride natural, betraying nothing. Steve matched him exactly, falling perfectly into step with him. Steve didn't stop at the corner, just made a drill-perfect turn and kept moving. Bucky followed, letting himself fall just a fraction behind so that he was on Steve's flank where he belonged.

They paced the edges of the tarmac together, and Bucky fell under the familiar trance of a long march. Pain was irrelevant. Everything was irrelevant but continuing to move forward stride by stride. He only had to hold his position relative to Steve.

Steve stopped, raising a hand as he did, like they had an entire company behind them. Bucky stopped with him, looking up as the lights on the landing area brightened, but he was distracted from searching the sky by the medical team coming out.

It wasn't much of a team--Dr. Granger and a nurse Bucky hadn't met before. No stretcher, no gurney, no big triage kit, just a satchel in the nurse's hand and a tablet in the doctor's. Bucky looked back and forth between them. "You're not planning on taking her in?"

Dr. Granger shook her head. "Barton sent over all her scans and test results from before they took off--I don't see anything that warrants running more tests tonight, or keeping her in the clinic if she's going to have someone with her to make sure she doesn't get into distress. Which I understand you've volunteered for."

Bucky didn't look over at Steve. He didn't know if Steve had expected Bucky to leave Natasha in the clinic, or with Barton, overnight, but there was no choice to make.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "If she can't be roused or seems confused or loses motor control, if the pain worsens sharply, if she's throwing up and can't stop..."

Dr. Granger nodded approvingly. "Anything that seems like cause for concern, call us, we're five minutes--"

Bucky lost the rest of what the doctor was saying, because he finally caught the dark silhouette of the quinjet, blotting out stars above them. He couldn't tear his eyes off it all the way down, and it landed lightly as a bird in front of them.

He felt himself leaning forward like a runner at the mark, and as soon as the ramp started down he was moving, holding himself to a fast walk. The interior of the jet was barely lit, but he had no trouble finding Natasha, lying under a thin blanket on a bench to one side.

He also had no trouble spotting the blood-soaked bandage on the side of her head. She had her eyes closed, her arms tucked against her chest, her left wrist in a splint.

Bucky looked up and found Barton coming back from the pilot's pod.

Was she SHOT in the head? Bucky signed furiously.

Barton signed back Didn't want to worry you with an apologetic grimace, not specifying whether that had been Barton's decision or Nat's.

"It's just a graze," Natasha muttered, keeping her eyes closed and barely moving her lips. "Popped a couple of stitches last time I threw up. Looks worse than it is."

Bucky folded down to his knees in front of her. His milk let down in a painful rush and soaking his shirt all over again. His voice came out low and gentle by sheer reflex. "How many times did you throw up, exactly?"

Nat moaned like she'd suddenly lost the power of speech, but Barton flashed two fingers twice when Bucky glanced up. The two before Barton called, and two more after.

"That's a concern," Dr. Granger said behind Bucky.

"Pushed a bag of saline after the third time," Barton said, and Bucky glanced up and spotted the spent bag and tubing. "She yanked the needle out in the middle of the fourth time, but that was only twenty minutes ago so I figured I'd better just get her on the ground."

"Shield her eyes, please, Barnes," the doctor said.

Bucky laid his right hand carefully over Natasha's eyes, touching just enough to seal skin to skin without pressing against her face. He saw every line of Natasha's body ease at the touch, and he saw the stutter in the doctor's movements beside him that meant she'd seen it too.

Bucky did not look up to see what Barton might make of it. He shifted his position to give the doctor and nurse better access, sitting tucked to one side with his hand over Natasha's eyes while they shone a bright light on the bullet-track creasing her scalp. They cleaned it out enough that the spray-on bandage stuff would stick. The nurse was running through more questions with Barton over his head, but that wasn't Bucky's concern now.

Bucky just breathed slowly and leaned toward Natasha, resisting the urge to shove his shirt up in front of God and everyone to push a nipple between her dry lips. Touch was enough, touch and closeness and probably the smell of milk. She was already soothed by the promise of him putting her to bed. He was already helping.

"You're going to need to hydrate, Romanoff," Dr. Granger said. "I know it's probably the last thing you want right now, but you need to get more fluids--something with electrolytes--or you're going to have to come to the clinic for another IV."

Bucky felt the flutter of Natasha's eyelashes against his palm. They'd put away the bright lights when they finished with her scalp wound, so he eased his hand away to let her meet his eyes and then the doctor's.

"I'll drink something, I promise," Natasha said solemnly.

Bucky ducked his head and stared intently at the floor, suppressing a frantic, hysterical laugh that strained at his ribs and made every muscle in his upper body lock tight. More milk leaked out of him, wasted because they were keeping Natasha here instead of letting him feed her.

"Let's get you home," Bucky said, when he could speak evenly.

Natasha's eyes met his and she nodded, shifting a little without raising her head, inviting him to help. Bucky maneuvered carefully to get her into his arms without jostling her, and she curled into him immediately, resting the uninjured side of her head against his left arm. He stood up slowly, gingerly, nodding absently to the doctor's instructions--don't let her drink too much too fast, yeah, they had that one covered.

He wasn't aware of anything except his Natashenka in his arms as he walked out of the quinjet and cut across the grass toward a side entrance to the housing wing. The door opened for him without his touching it, and the lights inside were dimmed. He was vaguely aware that that meant he had someone running interference, clearing his path, but Natasha's breathing was too steady, too careful, a sign that she was in pain. The fingers of her left hand, above the splint, were kneading restlessly against his chest, making milk leak out almost constantly as he walked.

"Almost there," he murmured. "Almost, almost. Soon, honey, I promise."

She let out a harder breath in reply, and he walked as fast as he could while keeping his gait perfectly smooth, stepped into a darkened elevator and stepped back out into a darkened corridor. The door to Natasha's apartment opened for him as soon as he reached it, and he didn't look back to see whether it closed or locked. He didn't break stride until he was in Natasha's bedroom, at the side of her bed, lowering her with infinite care onto the (deliberately, defiantly) rumpled covers.

He tugged a fold of blanket out from under her so she could lie easily on her side while he straightened up and whipped his shirts off. He dropped the sodden undershirt on top of the slightly less stained hoodie.

"Okay," he breathed. His whole chest was slick with leaking milk, the sweet smell of it almost overpowering now that he was uncovered. He lay down carefully on the bed, not jostling her, and she moaned and rolled onto him as soon as he was down, tucking herself under his left arm. He lay flat on his back and she cuddled in to the whole length of his body, heedless of the mess, heedless of anything.

Her mouth closed over his left nipple. Milk was already jetting out for even before she sucked, strong and alive and greedy for him, for this.

Bucky let his eyes close, let his own body go limp as hers had when she knew he was there to take care of her. She was safe now, home with him in the quiet dark of her bed. He would make her strong, help her heal. He curled his left arm gently around her, cradling her close, and she rested her splinted wrist on his chest, her fingertips over his heart tracing out his name. He tilted his head, not quite nuzzling against her hair. It was enough to breathe in the scent of her, blood and antiseptic and a new shampoo but still and always his Natasha.

She nursed in the fierce rhythm of hunger, and Bucky sighed, almost moaning himself at the relief of pressure--on that side, at least. His right side hurt worse and worse as the left was relieved, and he knew he was leaking again.

He opened his eyes to look, and in the act of turning his head from left to right he froze, arrested by the sight of Steve, standing in the doorway of Natasha's bedroom.

Bucky's whole body tensed, making Natasha's suckling stutter in its eager rhythm.

Bucky closed his eyes and turned his head back, his lips nearly brushing her hair. He made himself relax under her, muscle by muscle, so she wouldn't worry. "Shh, shh, it's all right. Take a breath. Slow down."

The noise Natasha made was tiny and petulant and made him smile despite everything. She took a deep breath through her nose and then sucked again, strong and steady but more measured now, falling into a sleepy late night rhythm this time.

Bucky kept his eyes closed and his face turned away, but he could see Steve in his mind's eye as clearly as if he were still staring.

Steve was leaning against the doorframe, not standing tall, frozen in shock. That meant Steve had been watching for a while. He'd seen everything; het must have followed them from the quinjet, probably coordinating the blackout, the doors, the elevator. Of course he had followed Bucky inside to see if he could help. And he had seen this. Steve was there long enough to sag against the doorframe for support, still watching.

He had one hand over his mouth--stopping himself from making a sound, hiding some unbearable expression. In the dimness Bucky couldn't read his eyes at all.

He heard the faint sound of Steve turning away and had to open his eyes to be sure.

The doorway was empty. Bucky heard faint sounds of movement elsewhere in the apartment and his eyes prickled with tears. He looked down at Natasha and made himself focus, touching her cheek gently with his right hand, petting with the backs of his fingers in time to her nursing. Natasha needed him. That was all that mattered right now.

Yes yes yes yesssssssss. I would give my right arm to know what Steve is thinking right now!

:D :D :D

Well that would make it WAY too easy. :D

:DDDDDDDD

And I am glad you're enjoying the leaking because that is... not stopping just yet. :D

Yessssssssss.

(OP) This is so perfect *sigh* It's simultaneously the sweetest and one of the most painful scenes I've ever read, and I really want to give Bucky a hug (and tbh, take care of his right side for him ;)

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Page 204 of 222

Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Re: An Inch of Rope [2b/7ish]

OP

Re: Leader of the Pack (8/10?)

Fill: Leader of the Pack (9/10)

Re: Fill: Leader of the Pack (9/10)

All Windows Are Tinted fill continuation

Re: Straight Aversion Therapy

Re: Leader of the Pack (8/10?)

Re: Fill: Leader of the Pack (9/10)

Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Chastity Device

Re: Trash Island

Re: Fill: Bucky's broken brain

I Never Told You To Love Me (minifill continued)

Re: I Never Told You To Love Me (minifill continued)

Fill: Drink Me, 8/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 8/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 8/?

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 8/?