(got a bit carried away here gnawing on the old chicken bones and mildewed socks. sorry?) ------------
He’s in the bathroom again, sitting on the floor. He hasn’t slept. He can function on very little sleep. Steve has encouraged him to live like a human, to eat regular meals and sleep in a bed eight hours each night, but Steve is wrong about him. He doesn’t need normal things like that, and he doesn’t deserve them.
Two of his metal fingers press against his lips, then slide into his mouth. He tries to make himself gag, but it’s impossible. That reflex had been trained away long before Hydra got ahold of him. His body isn’t meant for pleasant, gentle, human things.
Steve knocks on the door. “Bucky? I was going to make some dinner. Do you want any?”
He pushes to his feet and lets the fingers fall from his mouth. When he tugs open the door, Steve is standing there, hand poised to knock again.
“Oh, sorry.” Steve drops his hand to his side. For a moment, he frowns, and Bucky experiences a stab of fear. Now Steve will see what it is Bucky himself has failed to pinpoint: the stamp that declares his worthlessness. But Steve shakes his head. “Uh, I’m making dinner.”
No, Steve hasn’t seen it, then. “I’m going out.” Bucky darts past Steve, careful not to make any contact, and speeds down the hallway.
“Bucky,” Steve calls, and Bucky stops, because he must. When he turns back, Steve is frowning again. “Be careful.” --
Bucky has only walked a block when a Corvette Stingray begins to keep pace beside him. He keeps walking. The car is 460 horsepower, approximately 3200 pounds. He could disable it in 14 seconds with no additional weaponry, but gratuitous damage to essential equipment is a punishable offense. In a chase, outmaneuvering the car on narrow city streets and affecting an escape could take up to six minutes, depending on the driver. Natasha rolls down the window. The locks click in invitation. He gets into the car.
Natasha drives for twenty-two minutes without speaking. She stops at the end of a block, in front of a fire hydrant. Bucky can see the neon light of a dance club up ahead: a different one than they’d gone to yesterday. Natasha’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but she does not look at him.
“This is something you need?” she asks.
He does not consider that she be referring to anything other than yesterday’s events. She is a very capable intelligence officer. He’s not surprised she has pieced together his actions. He does consider not responding, but determines that might result in additional questions. “Yes.”
She looks at him, then. There’s no cold calculation in her eyes, as he has seen when his handlers looked to turn weakness to advantage. Instead, there is understanding. “Steve can’t give it to you.”
“No.” It comes out more sharply than he intends, but he needs Natasha to understand. Steve will find out eventually, but he shouldn’t be touched by this, shouldn’t be stained by whatever’s marked Bucky.
Rain begins to spatter against the windows, blurring the city’s lights into shining streaks. “What about me?” she asks.
He assesses that proposal for a moment. Natasha is strong. She is hard. She could hurt him, if he let her. Then he shakes his head. “Strangers. Those are the parameters.”
She nods, and shifts the car back into gear. --
It starts much the same, this time. He sees the interest in this man’s eyes. The man has light hair and a smooth face. He is not old, or at least, he looks young, like someone who has never seen anyone bleed to death, has never been the cause of death.
This time Bucky leads the way, and locks the door to the bathroom behind them. Immediately he goes to work unfastening the man’s pants.
“Hey, woah, are you sure you want to--? Right this minute?” The man puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and squeezes.
It’s a nonverbal order. Bucky stops.
“We can go back to my place, if you want.” The man leans in and presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, below the ear. His short blond hair is at eye level. “Have a drink first.”
“No.” Bucky risks that much defiance, because he knows what the man must want from him, ultimately. He finishes with the belt, and the pants, and reaches his hand inside to wrap around the man’s cock.
The man gasps, high and drawn out. “Okay, here is fine too, I guess.”
The man is halfway hard already. Bucky withdraws his hand to spit on it before returning to his task.
“Oh man, don’t stop.” The man slings one arm around Bucky’s shoulders and leans into him, breathing hard. “That’s so good. Here, let me.” He reaches for Bucky’s pants.
“Don’t.” Bucky jerks back so quickly he knocks the breath out of his lungs when he impacts the wall. But he does not let go of the man’s growing erection. He keeps stroking dutifully, even as the man frowns at him, his furrowed brow an echo of Steve’s expression earlier.
“Are you okay? It seems like—“
“Please.” It’s difficult to concentrate when the man keeps looking at him like that. Bucky folds to his knees and wraps his mouth around the man’s cock, and that succeeds in stopping his objections.
“Oh man, you’re so good at that.” The man’s fingers tangle in his hair, and Bucky knows what’s coming, but then, no, they tug gently through his locks, then release, and repeat the movement, stroking gently across the back of his head. “Yeah, you’re beautiful. I am so fucking lucky. Will you look at me?”
Bucky looks up, keeping his mouth wrapped tightly around the man’s cock.
“That’s it. You’re so good.”
A small curl of pleasure unwinds in Bucky’s chest, but he crushes it. He tears his eyes away and pushes forward until his throat is stuffed full, cutting off his air and making tears gather at the corners of his eyes. This is not meant to be enjoyable. No, it has to be rough, has to hurt. No one treats him kindly, because it’s not necessary. If this man, this stranger can treat him like this, there’s something wrong. He knows everyone can look at him and see what he is. He has evidence. So why would this stupid, stubborn man pretend that Bucky’s worth something, pretend he deserves anything besides pain. He will not be tricked into believing that, not again.
He holds himself there, choking, until the man pushes at his shoulder. The touch is directive, and he must obey, so he backs off, gulping in air.
“Slow down,” the man says, with a nervous chuckle. “It’s not a race.”
The tone is gentle, almost playful. But not like Bucky is a plaything—like he’s in on the joke, somehow. Like he wants this, too. His metal fingers clench against his thigh, denting the muscle there and sending punishing jolts of pain up his spine. He darts in again, this time using his flesh hand and his tongue in every way he knows.
“Hey man, take it easy, you don’t have to—Oh!”
With an expert press of tongue into the slit, the man is coming, his words melting into shouted vowels. Even then, losing control of himself, he does not grab, or push, or hit. Bucky rides out the wave of the man’s climax, swallowing diligently. When the man pulls back, Bucky lets the softening flesh drop from his mouth.
He does not expect the man to melt to his knees before him.
The man presses a kiss to Bucky’s mouth, heedless of the mess lingering on his tongue. “That was…” The man chuckles again, and Bucky’s fingers dig harder into his leg. “You are amazing.”
Bucky’s cock throbs in his pants, even as he tries to hold himself still under the man’s touch. He is not meant to enjoy this. If he can enjoy this, he will start to think that he deserves this, and then it will hurt more when he is reminded that this is not for him.
“Can I return the favor?” The man leans forward, sliding his hands up Bucky’s thighs.
“No!” His hand—the flesh one—is around the man’s throat, and they are both on their feet when the door bangs open, lock dangling from the frame. Natasha is there, framed by the darkness of the club beyond.
She keeps one hand on the door and the other out of sight until Bucky lets go and backs up. The guy zips up his pants and hurries past Natasha, away to safety.
Bucky pushes to his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. --
Natasha checks him for injuries without touching him. “We need to talk,” she says, and looks at where he is still pressing dents into his thigh with his metal hand. He makes himself stop.
“Stay here,” she says, and goes to run interference on the club’s manager, who has gathered several security guards. When Natasha steps out of sight, he makes use of one of the six exit routes he’d noted during his assessment.
Rain splatters onto the pavement. It is his friend tonight. It will make him harder to track.
It’s early, yet, and he hasn’t gotten what he needs. He can still feel that man’s gentle touch stroking through his hair, hear the approval in his voice. That’s wrong. He knows that’s wrong.
It is difficult to find somewhere to go. Without Natasha, people look at him and know he doesn’t belong. It is hours before he finds himself again in the enveloping chaos of a club, this one large and loud, with several stories of revelers, bodies pressed against each other, and hungry gazes roaming. Here, they will recognize him, and know what he is.
He is on the first floor when he spots Natasha. She hasn’t yet seen him, and he retreats into the shadows near the wall. If he moves with the crowd, she won’t spot the patterns of disruption. He’s made it nearly to the door when a hand closes around his wrist, warm against his flesh. “Isn’t it time to call it a night?”
He turns to see Barton, Clint standing behind him, blending into the crowd with the same unerring ease Natasha shows. He had not anticipated this aspect of Barton’s training.
“You know who I am?” Barton asks.
He nods. He does not remember meeting the man, but he has read files, though he recalls them only vaguely. The man could not have been a target, because he would be dead, but he may have had some connection to a target, once. Still, he is a stranger. He is within mission parameters.
The hand is tight on his wrist, firm but not insistent. He could break Barton’s grip. Instead, he tugs gently, towards the door.
Barton looks back, scanning the crowd for Natasha, but Bucky pulls again, then starts to move. As he anticipated, Barton follows him the last three feet to the exit and out into the alley, where the rain still turns the dark night a misty grey.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Bucky twists his grip arm to clamp onto Barton’s wrist and executes a simple over-shoulder throw.
Barton recovers enough to land in a neat roll rather than on his back, and in an instant, he’s up and ready for the next attack. The remnants of his memory on the files say Barton prefers projectile weapons, so Bucky keeps the match in close quarters with a slow charge.
Barton has more than sufficient time to sidestep the move and execute a neat kick that sends Bucky towards the wall. He doesn’t bother to catch himself, letting the blow jolt through him. He waits one heartbeat past the moment when he might have moved, which is just soon enough to catch Barton’s fist and shove him backwards. He could have broken Barton’s arm, but he does not want to hurt him. He does not want to win.
Barton comes up with a pipe from a pile of construction debris, and Bucky has to close with him again, shortening his reach and making the weapon useless. A kick lands hard on his kidney, and a punch against his cheek, but Bucky does not cry out. He staggers backwards, responding with blows of his own until he senses the wall behind him. Then he executes a vicious roundhouse that knocks Barton to the side, but leaves Bucky exposed. In less than six seconds, his face is pressed to the wall, his arms wrenched up behind him, immobilized.
“Are you done?” Barton is breathing hard. Possibly he is angry. He will want to punish Bucky. That is good.
Bucky nods. He bows his head, exposing the back of his neck, and widens his stance. He shifts backwards, until he can feel the outline of Barton’s cock against his ass. The adrenaline has done its work.
“Barnes,” Barton says warningly. He starts to pull away, and Bucky’s hands hurry to his belt. He will take his pants off, and Barton will use him as he’s meant to be used. He won’t speak softly or make the mistake of thinking Bucky deserves kindness. He knows that Bucky is the enemy, that he deserves to be hurt.
“Don’t.” Barton grabs his wrists and pulls them away from their work.
Bucky presses his hands against the wall, out of the way. Sometimes they want to strip him themselves, or cut off his clothes. He waits.
“Barnes,” Barton says again. “This isn’t…”
Bucky turns to run an assessment. Barton is bleeding from a split lip, and curled a bit to the right, possibly favoring a cracked rib on that side. Perhaps Bucky miscalculated. Perhaps Barton doesn’t want to do all the work. He drops to his knees and feels the wet of a puddle immediately soak through his jeans.
“No,” Barton says sharply. “We’re not doing that.”
Bucky raises his head and squints at Barton through the rain. His heart is pounding in his chest. He runs over the mission parameter in his mind, looking for something he missed. Barton knows he’s the enemy. Barton can take what he wants. It must be obvious what Bucky is used to—what Bucky is for.
“Okay. Wait.” Barton takes a step forward, reaching out a hand as one would approach a wild animal: palm down, an order to stay.
The click of heels on pavement coalesces out of the mist, and Natasha appears beside Barton. “You alright?” she asks.
When Barton doesn’t answer, Bucky realizes she’s asking him. He lowers his eyes.
“Here.” She brushes past Barton. There is no sound audible above the rain and the traffic, but he senses Natasha crouched beside him. She touches a finger to the skin on his cheekbone, broken from the fight, which is already beginning to heal. He does not look up. She says, “Let’s go home.”
When he follows the two of them back to the car, his dick is throbbing insistently, and the dread that’s been growing since his walk by the fish market has spread like poison, slowing his every movement. Still, when Barton points to the car, he obeys.
How It Adds Up 2.5/3
------------
He’s in the bathroom again, sitting on the floor. He hasn’t slept. He can function on very little sleep. Steve has encouraged him to live like a human, to eat regular meals and sleep in a bed eight hours each night, but Steve is wrong about him. He doesn’t need normal things like that, and he doesn’t deserve them.
Two of his metal fingers press against his lips, then slide into his mouth. He tries to make himself gag, but it’s impossible. That reflex had been trained away long before Hydra got ahold of him. His body isn’t meant for pleasant, gentle, human things.
Steve knocks on the door. “Bucky? I was going to make some dinner. Do you want any?”
He pushes to his feet and lets the fingers fall from his mouth. When he tugs open the door, Steve is standing there, hand poised to knock again.
“Oh, sorry.” Steve drops his hand to his side. For a moment, he frowns, and Bucky experiences a stab of fear. Now Steve will see what it is Bucky himself has failed to pinpoint: the stamp that declares his worthlessness. But Steve shakes his head. “Uh, I’m making dinner.”
No, Steve hasn’t seen it, then. “I’m going out.” Bucky darts past Steve, careful not to make any contact, and speeds down the hallway.
“Bucky,” Steve calls, and Bucky stops, because he must. When he turns back, Steve is frowning again. “Be careful.”
--
Bucky has only walked a block when a Corvette Stingray begins to keep pace beside him. He keeps walking. The car is 460 horsepower, approximately 3200 pounds. He could disable it in 14 seconds with no additional weaponry, but gratuitous damage to essential equipment is a punishable offense. In a chase, outmaneuvering the car on narrow city streets and affecting an escape could take up to six minutes, depending on the driver. Natasha rolls down the window. The locks click in invitation. He gets into the car.
Natasha drives for twenty-two minutes without speaking. She stops at the end of a block, in front of a fire hydrant. Bucky can see the neon light of a dance club up ahead: a different one than they’d gone to yesterday. Natasha’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but she does not look at him.
“This is something you need?” she asks.
He does not consider that she be referring to anything other than yesterday’s events. She is a very capable intelligence officer. He’s not surprised she has pieced together his actions. He does consider not responding, but determines that might result in additional questions. “Yes.”
She looks at him, then. There’s no cold calculation in her eyes, as he has seen when his handlers looked to turn weakness to advantage. Instead, there is understanding. “Steve can’t give it to you.”
“No.” It comes out more sharply than he intends, but he needs Natasha to understand. Steve will find out eventually, but he shouldn’t be touched by this, shouldn’t be stained by whatever’s marked Bucky.
Rain begins to spatter against the windows, blurring the city’s lights into shining streaks. “What about me?” she asks.
He assesses that proposal for a moment. Natasha is strong. She is hard. She could hurt him, if he let her. Then he shakes his head. “Strangers. Those are the parameters.”
She nods, and shifts the car back into gear.
--
It starts much the same, this time. He sees the interest in this man’s eyes. The man has light hair and a smooth face. He is not old, or at least, he looks young, like someone who has never seen anyone bleed to death, has never been the cause of death.
This time Bucky leads the way, and locks the door to the bathroom behind them. Immediately he goes to work unfastening the man’s pants.
“Hey, woah, are you sure you want to--? Right this minute?” The man puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and squeezes.
It’s a nonverbal order. Bucky stops.
“We can go back to my place, if you want.” The man leans in and presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, below the ear. His short blond hair is at eye level. “Have a drink first.”
“No.” Bucky risks that much defiance, because he knows what the man must want from him, ultimately. He finishes with the belt, and the pants, and reaches his hand inside to wrap around the man’s cock.
The man gasps, high and drawn out. “Okay, here is fine too, I guess.”
The man is halfway hard already. Bucky withdraws his hand to spit on it before returning to his task.
“Oh man, don’t stop.” The man slings one arm around Bucky’s shoulders and leans into him, breathing hard. “That’s so good. Here, let me.” He reaches for Bucky’s pants.
“Don’t.” Bucky jerks back so quickly he knocks the breath out of his lungs when he impacts the wall. But he does not let go of the man’s growing erection. He keeps stroking dutifully, even as the man frowns at him, his furrowed brow an echo of Steve’s expression earlier.
“Are you okay? It seems like—“
“Please.” It’s difficult to concentrate when the man keeps looking at him like that. Bucky folds to his knees and wraps his mouth around the man’s cock, and that succeeds in stopping his objections.
“Oh man, you’re so good at that.” The man’s fingers tangle in his hair, and Bucky knows what’s coming, but then, no, they tug gently through his locks, then release, and repeat the movement, stroking gently across the back of his head. “Yeah, you’re beautiful. I am so fucking lucky. Will you look at me?”
Bucky looks up, keeping his mouth wrapped tightly around the man’s cock.
“That’s it. You’re so good.”
A small curl of pleasure unwinds in Bucky’s chest, but he crushes it. He tears his eyes away and pushes forward until his throat is stuffed full, cutting off his air and making tears gather at the corners of his eyes. This is not meant to be enjoyable. No, it has to be rough, has to hurt. No one treats him kindly, because it’s not necessary. If this man, this stranger can treat him like this, there’s something wrong. He knows everyone can look at him and see what he is. He has evidence. So why would this stupid, stubborn man pretend that Bucky’s worth something, pretend he deserves anything besides pain. He will not be tricked into believing that, not again.
He holds himself there, choking, until the man pushes at his shoulder. The touch is directive, and he must obey, so he backs off, gulping in air.
“Slow down,” the man says, with a nervous chuckle. “It’s not a race.”
The tone is gentle, almost playful. But not like Bucky is a plaything—like he’s in on the joke, somehow. Like he wants this, too. His metal fingers clench against his thigh, denting the muscle there and sending punishing jolts of pain up his spine. He darts in again, this time using his flesh hand and his tongue in every way he knows.
“Hey man, take it easy, you don’t have to—Oh!”
With an expert press of tongue into the slit, the man is coming, his words melting into shouted vowels. Even then, losing control of himself, he does not grab, or push, or hit. Bucky rides out the wave of the man’s climax, swallowing diligently. When the man pulls back, Bucky lets the softening flesh drop from his mouth.
He does not expect the man to melt to his knees before him.
The man presses a kiss to Bucky’s mouth, heedless of the mess lingering on his tongue. “That was…” The man chuckles again, and Bucky’s fingers dig harder into his leg. “You are amazing.”
Bucky’s cock throbs in his pants, even as he tries to hold himself still under the man’s touch. He is not meant to enjoy this. If he can enjoy this, he will start to think that he deserves this, and then it will hurt more when he is reminded that this is not for him.
“Can I return the favor?” The man leans forward, sliding his hands up Bucky’s thighs.
“No!” His hand—the flesh one—is around the man’s throat, and they are both on their feet when the door bangs open, lock dangling from the frame. Natasha is there, framed by the darkness of the club beyond.
She keeps one hand on the door and the other out of sight until Bucky lets go and backs up. The guy zips up his pants and hurries past Natasha, away to safety.
Bucky pushes to his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
--
Natasha checks him for injuries without touching him. “We need to talk,” she says, and looks at where he is still pressing dents into his thigh with his metal hand. He makes himself stop.
“Stay here,” she says, and goes to run interference on the club’s manager, who has gathered several security guards. When Natasha steps out of sight, he makes use of one of the six exit routes he’d noted during his assessment.
Rain splatters onto the pavement. It is his friend tonight. It will make him harder to track.
It’s early, yet, and he hasn’t gotten what he needs. He can still feel that man’s gentle touch stroking through his hair, hear the approval in his voice. That’s wrong. He knows that’s wrong.
It is difficult to find somewhere to go. Without Natasha, people look at him and know he doesn’t belong. It is hours before he finds himself again in the enveloping chaos of a club, this one large and loud, with several stories of revelers, bodies pressed against each other, and hungry gazes roaming. Here, they will recognize him, and know what he is.
He is on the first floor when he spots Natasha. She hasn’t yet seen him, and he retreats into the shadows near the wall. If he moves with the crowd, she won’t spot the patterns of disruption. He’s made it nearly to the door when a hand closes around his wrist, warm against his flesh. “Isn’t it time to call it a night?”
He turns to see Barton, Clint standing behind him, blending into the crowd with the same unerring ease Natasha shows. He had not anticipated this aspect of Barton’s training.
“You know who I am?” Barton asks.
He nods. He does not remember meeting the man, but he has read files, though he recalls them only vaguely. The man could not have been a target, because he would be dead, but he may have had some connection to a target, once. Still, he is a stranger. He is within mission parameters.
The hand is tight on his wrist, firm but not insistent. He could break Barton’s grip. Instead, he tugs gently, towards the door.
Barton looks back, scanning the crowd for Natasha, but Bucky pulls again, then starts to move. As he anticipated, Barton follows him the last three feet to the exit and out into the alley, where the rain still turns the dark night a misty grey.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Bucky twists his grip arm to clamp onto Barton’s wrist and executes a simple over-shoulder throw.
Barton recovers enough to land in a neat roll rather than on his back, and in an instant, he’s up and ready for the next attack. The remnants of his memory on the files say Barton prefers projectile weapons, so Bucky keeps the match in close quarters with a slow charge.
Barton has more than sufficient time to sidestep the move and execute a neat kick that sends Bucky towards the wall. He doesn’t bother to catch himself, letting the blow jolt through him. He waits one heartbeat past the moment when he might have moved, which is just soon enough to catch Barton’s fist and shove him backwards. He could have broken Barton’s arm, but he does not want to hurt him. He does not want to win.
Barton comes up with a pipe from a pile of construction debris, and Bucky has to close with him again, shortening his reach and making the weapon useless. A kick lands hard on his kidney, and a punch against his cheek, but Bucky does not cry out. He staggers backwards, responding with blows of his own until he senses the wall behind him. Then he executes a vicious roundhouse that knocks Barton to the side, but leaves Bucky exposed. In less than six seconds, his face is pressed to the wall, his arms wrenched up behind him, immobilized.
“Are you done?” Barton is breathing hard. Possibly he is angry. He will want to punish Bucky. That is good.
Bucky nods. He bows his head, exposing the back of his neck, and widens his stance. He shifts backwards, until he can feel the outline of Barton’s cock against his ass. The adrenaline has done its work.
“Barnes,” Barton says warningly. He starts to pull away, and Bucky’s hands hurry to his belt. He will take his pants off, and Barton will use him as he’s meant to be used. He won’t speak softly or make the mistake of thinking Bucky deserves kindness. He knows that Bucky is the enemy, that he deserves to be hurt.
“Don’t.” Barton grabs his wrists and pulls them away from their work.
Bucky presses his hands against the wall, out of the way. Sometimes they want to strip him themselves, or cut off his clothes. He waits.
“Barnes,” Barton says again. “This isn’t…”
Bucky turns to run an assessment. Barton is bleeding from a split lip, and curled a bit to the right, possibly favoring a cracked rib on that side. Perhaps Bucky miscalculated. Perhaps Barton doesn’t want to do all the work. He drops to his knees and feels the wet of a puddle immediately soak through his jeans.
“No,” Barton says sharply. “We’re not doing that.”
Bucky raises his head and squints at Barton through the rain. His heart is pounding in his chest. He runs over the mission parameter in his mind, looking for something he missed. Barton knows he’s the enemy. Barton can take what he wants. It must be obvious what Bucky is used to—what Bucky is for.
“Okay. Wait.” Barton takes a step forward, reaching out a hand as one would approach a wild animal: palm down, an order to stay.
The click of heels on pavement coalesces out of the mist, and Natasha appears beside Barton. “You alright?” she asks.
When Barton doesn’t answer, Bucky realizes she’s asking him. He lowers his eyes.
“Here.” She brushes past Barton. There is no sound audible above the rain and the traffic, but he senses Natasha crouched beside him. She touches a finger to the skin on his cheekbone, broken from the fight, which is already beginning to heal. He does not look up. She says, “Let’s go home.”
When he follows the two of them back to the car, his dick is throbbing insistently, and the dread that’s been growing since his walk by the fish market has spread like poison, slowing his every movement. Still, when Barton points to the car, he obeys.