In the white-tiled room, Bucky stripped without needing to be told. He folded and arranged every piece of his outfit neatly, and even brushed his too-long hair back out of his eyes before he got on his knees in the center of the room, where he began each day. He would be on his best behavior and show Müller how compliant he’d become. He’d demonstrate appropriate gratitude for having been given the privilege of some company.

Müller stepped up before him and raised an eyebrow, taking in Bucky’s bowed head, his hand relaxed against his bare thigh. “You are very accommodating this morning, Sergeant. I hope you had a restful evening.”

Someone behind him laughed—Schreiber, maybe, whose voice was like sandpaper—but Bucky ignored it. It didn’t matter what they thought of him, especially now that he wouldn’t be here much longer. Let them see him as a useless coward; he knew better.

“Yes,” he said, with his eyes on Müller’s highly polished boots. “Do you want to start now?”

A faint clank interrupted Müller’s answer as the door swung open; the hinges here were kept oiled and in better shape than Bucky’s cell. From his place on the floor, Bucky turned his head to look: sometimes a doctor or another officer came to watch and take notes. Instead, he saw two of his regular guards, Lange and Günther, leading PFC Thompson.

Thompson’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the guards and Müller and landing on Bucky where he knelt naked and unbound in the center of the floor. Bucky’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t speak.

“Mitcommen,” Lange said, and prodded Thompson in the back. They led him to the corner, where he had a perfect view of the proceedings.

Bucky looked up at Müller, who smiled down at him as if nothing were wrong. “This is no different than any other day, Sergeant Barnes. You may continue. Would you prefer to suck cock first or be sodomized?”

Bucky’s eyes darted to Thompson, who stared back at him, blue eyes wide.

“As far as I can tell, you enjoy both equally, so I will leave the choice up to you.” When Bucky turned his face to the floor, determinedly trying not to think past the buzzing in his head, Müller stepped forward and tipped his chin up with one finger. “Surely you are not acting shy? This is nothing you haven’t done before, Sergeant. On many occasions.”

“I…” Bucky wanted to explain that he wasn’t kneeling here passively of his own volition. It was all part of a plan. He didn’t want to do this. When he risked a glance to the corner, Thompson was looking back and forth between Müller and Bucky, brow furrowed.

“After all, this arrangement exists because you have requested it.” Müller drew his hand away and took a step back, the better to look down at Bucky with that infuriatingly calm, expectant smile. “As always, Sergeant Barnes, the choice to proceed is your own. However, I am certain you understand there will be consequences if you do not fulfill the bargain you have made.”

With a sudden swell of fear, Bucky looked Thompson over. He still wore his uniform, even his boots. His hands were bound behind his back, but Lange and Günther stood a few feet away, not touching him. His face, bearing a few days’ worth of scruff, was unbloodied. They hadn’t hit him yet. Surely they wouldn’t subject him to the same things Bucky had endured, not when he was still strong and whole, capable of working in their factory.

“Go on, Sergeant Barnes,” Müller said. “Ask for what you want. You have been particularly eloquent before on the subject of your desire to suck Gefreiter Klein’s cock. Perhaps start with that.”

Bucky swallowed hard. From the corner of his eye, he could see Thompson watching him with his mouth pressed into a grim line. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself. He’d done all this before.

“Sergeant? Do you have something to say?”

The fact that someone was watching, someone that knew who Bucky was supposed to be, shouldn’t make any difference. Sergeant Bucky Barnes of the Howling Commandos wasn’t meant to be on his knees asking sweetly for the enemy to fuck him and make him come, please. That wasn’t right. But he had to do it. It was the only smart choice.

“Sergeant?” Müller prompted again.

Bucky looked up at him with parted lips, wanting to speak but unable to say the words that would betray what he’d become.

“Very well,” Müller said. He lifted his Luger from its holster and leveled it at Thompson.

Bucky whirled to see Thompson's panicked eyes staring at him. “Bucky?”

The shot reverberated in the small room. Blood sprayed in an elegant pattern against the white tile. The bullet struck the wall opposite Müller and sent a chip of tile tinkling down to shatter against the floor. Thompson’s body slumped heavily to land on its side. His blue eyes were still open, vacantly staring.

“Continue,” Müller said, waving a hand at the guards.

Bucky’s ears buzzed, blocking out sound as they pushed him onto his stomach, as they’d done in the early days. One of them—Klein, his mind supplied distantly—prepped him with slick before shoving roughly inside. There was no need to hold him down, because he made no effort to move.

Bucky’s cheek pressed against the white tile, a mirror image of Thompson, whose skin paled as blood drained out of him in a widening pool, staining the pristine white tile. There was a small, perfect hole in his forehead, as beautiful a shot as Bucky had ever made as a sniper.

Müller crouched in front of Bucky and cocked his head at the body on the floor, examining his handiwork. “I confess I am surprised at your choice, Sergeant. I would not have imagined the life of a fellow soldier would be worth so little to you.”

“It’s not—“ Bucky began, but Klein thrust into him hard, knocking the breath out of him. By the time he regained his breath, Müller had stood and turned away. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of Thompson’s body.

With his eyes closed, he could feel every slick rub of Klein’s cock inside him, the familiar pressure he’d come to rely on to bring himself off each day. He dug his ragged fingernails into his thigh, trying to kill the building pleasure.

“Sergeant.” Müller sounded as irritated as Bucky had ever heard him. “Your decision not to let Private Thompson live does not exempt you from your responsibilities in today’s session. You will still need to accommodate both handlers and achieve your own end before we can be finished here today.”

“I didn’t…” Bucky began, but then opened his eyes to see Thompson’s blank, unmoving face. After all he’d done so far, he’d let them trick him again. He’d gotten too good at playing along, not giving them reasons to hurt him, so they’d tried to intimidate him into misbehaving, and he’d fallen for it. He’d hesitated, and Thompson had lost his life.

Bucky barely felt it when Klein shuddered against him and then pulled out. Schreiber tugged Bucky up onto his knees before he plunged in, rocking Bucky against the tile floor.

This wouldn’t end, Bucky knew, until he did what was required. He couldn’t bring himself to touch his cock, to gather all the thin strands of pleasure he could find in another man using his body and weave them into something he could use to get off. He didn’t deserve it. Let Müller bring in soldier after soldier: they could all fuck him, hurt him, use him.

“Sergeant Barnes.” Müller’s hand landed on his bare shoulder, a comforting warm weight. His voice, even and familiar, sounded soft in Bucky’s ears, drifting past the fading buzz of the gunshot. “I am sorry I snapped at you. I have learned by now that you are as hard on yourself as anyone when you make a mistake. But listen, Sergeant. If you give up, you’ll never have a chance to correct your error.”

Bucky wriggled out from under Müller’s hand and pressed his face into the tile, so he wouldn’t have to see.

“Sergeant.” Müller’s hand stroked against Bucky’s back, a slow, gentle counterpoint to Schreiber’s energetic thrusts. “This will happen again, if you don’t prevent it. It cannot be so difficult. You’ve always found a way to make it work. Just let yourself come, as you’ve done so many times before, and it will be over for today. Next time, you will improve.”

Next time. When Bucky closed his eyes, he could see the pure animal fear in Thompson’s eyes in the instant before he died. Bucky could have stopped it. The plan called for him to cooperate. He had no reason to balk, just because one more person was watching him. It didn’t matter.

Bucky settled his fingers over his limp cock and closed his eyes. If he could ignore Thompson, whose blood he could smell mixed with the scent of sex, he could focus on the cock pistoning into him, the firm grip of Schreiber’s hands around Bucky’s waist, slamming him back into each thrust, the rhythmic clench of his hole around the demanding girth that kept him spread.

Those sensations were familiar. They didn’t hurt, not really. They were the same each time, and Bucky could count on them; he knew how his body worked, how to make it do what they wanted. He was supposed to do what they wanted. That was the plan. If he’d stuck to the plan, Thompson wouldn’t be dead.

Bucky let Schreiber’s thrusts rock his hips forward into his fist, sliding through his grip as he hardened. He could do this. If he did this, everything would be all right. He wouldn’t have failed entirely. He could still salvage the situation.

With his eyes shut tight and his jaw clenched, Bucky made himself relax and take pleasure in what was being done to him. Schreiber always took his time; he could go on for much longer than was comfortable, if Bucky didn’t help him along.

Bucky braced his hand against the tile and pushed back into Schreiber’s next shove. That spurred Schreiber on to fuck him harder, his balls slapping wetly against Bucky as he slammed back into each thrust.

Bucky didn’t let himself think of anything beyond the confines of his body: the slick slide of his hand over his cock, the trickle of sweat running down his neck, the satisfying burn of Schreiber filling him up. If he focused only on that, he could do it. He felt his orgasm gather, coiling low in his belly as his balls tightened. When Schreiber thrust into him hard enough to ruin his balance, tipping him forward onto his shoulders and letting him hide his face against the tile, he felt his orgasm roll through him, drowning out thought and pain as it went.

That earned him a few moments of blissful blankness while Schreiber finished, spending his seed inside to mingle with Klein’s before pulling out and leaving a dribble of come to creep down Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky stayed where we was, panting and feeling each point of sensation in his body, until he heard Müller kneel beside him. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered. He couldn’t open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he’d see Thompson’s empty eyes staring back at him.

For once, Müller didn’t press him for a more convincing demonstration of his gratitude.

When Klein half-lifted Bucky to his feet, his touch was gentle. He ducked under Bucky’s arm and supported him as if he were injured, guiding him towards the door. Bucky kept his face turned away from where Thompson lay.

“Sergeant Barnes.” Müller stepped up beside him and ducked to meet his eyes. “I want you to think about what you will do tomorrow. You will the be the one to decide what happens, yes?”

“Yes.” Bucky made himself look back at Thompson’s body, at the bright puddle of red against the shocking white of the tile. Klein let Bucky look his fill before he led him away.

Back in his cell, the burned remains of the makeshift candles had been removed, and the blanket replaced. Bucky could almost imagine that Thompson had never been there. But when he sat down against the wall and closed his eyes, he could hear the wet thud of a bullet impacting flesh, smell the sharp metallic scent of cooling blood, see the open eyes staring at nothing.

Bucky pressed his ragged fingernails against the bandages that hid the stump of his left arm until the pain throbbed so insistently he couldn't think of anything else.