Living with Steve was amazing. He was patient, and kind, and he never pushed too far at the memories that Bucky hadn't yet scrabbled back from the edge. He would be his old self - he was tactile, and his hands were always on Bucky - resting on his arm or patting his back, or even resting on his thigh as they cuddled on the couch. Steve liked contact.
Bucky wasn't that keen on contact, but he understood it was necessary. Better, after a few days where the contact hadn't led to more, he was able to see that Steve wasn't touching him as a prelude to pushing him down to the floor and having sex with him. He was just touching him because he liked contact, and Bucky wasn't enough of a bastard to deprive Steve of that.
He was making pancakes, and running a problem over in his mind. Steve had been asking a little recently, about Hydra. The first week, graphic descriptions of the murders he had performed to order had been enough to make Steve silent, aside from a squeeze to his arm and a "it wasn't your fault". Steve said that Bucky could tell him anything, and so far he had reacted kindly to everything he had been told.
But some of it was different. He understood that. It wasn't that Steve was a prude - just that it was one thing to accept that your friend had been brainwashed and made to kill, and another entirely to accept that he had rolled over for every Hydra agent who had asked. Steve was the best thing Bucky had ever had, in any stage of his life, and he needed to find a way of keeping him. Losing Steve wasn't an option, not again. Death would come first, if it had to.
Still, there was no need to do anything so drastic because Steve was poking around and asking about his time with Hydra. It wasn't even that he was opposed to telling him. Those arm squeezes and the promise it wasn't his fault that he had killed so many had been nice. He just had to do it right. He couldn't make a mistake. If he asked for help, expecting those touches, and instead Steve was repulsed, he would be ruined. He had nightmares about Steve finding some of the photographs or film, and telling Bucky he was disgusting. Or worse, of him finding out and never wanting to touch Bucky again. That would destroy him.
So he decided that he would find a way of testing it. To work out what Steve's response would be. If Steve responded acceptably, then he would be able to tell him, but if Steve was repulsed or angry, it would mean he couldn't push any further, that he couldn't ask any more questions. He just needed to work out how to ask.
He could start by talking about being groped perhaps. How sometimes when he was half-asleep in a transport the person sitting next to him would reach out and slide their hand into his pants - or more likely take his hand and put it in theirs. But the problem was that groping never was enough for them, and it wouldn't be long after that he was kneeling in the back of the jeep, hair streaked with filth and jaw aching. He didn't want to have to explain that. If Steve had seen him like that, surely he would have been revolted.
But part of Bucky hoped. Part of Bucky thought that telling the truth might lead to kindness rather than pain, and that part of him ached to tell Steve. Sometimes he worried Steve suspected, when he jumped when he was touched, or when he woke in the night screaming to find Steve in the room holding him down, stopping him lashing out. He wanted to say and be understood, to be forgiven for all the wrong he had done. But he couldn't risk being found out.
This thought had kept him up for a couple of days, with no resolution in sight. He headed to the gym, knowing that punching something that wouldn't fight back might at least start to untangle the anger and confusion in his stomach.
Natasha was already there, midway through a routine. Her movements were just as graceful as they had been with a child. She didn't look up as he took his position at the bag, and an idea began to form. It would be possible to tell Steve without risking everything, as long as he didn't know exactly what he was being told.
Fill: Giving the Blame (1/?)
Bucky wasn't that keen on contact, but he understood it was necessary. Better, after a few days where the contact hadn't led to more, he was able to see that Steve wasn't touching him as a prelude to pushing him down to the floor and having sex with him. He was just touching him because he liked contact, and Bucky wasn't enough of a bastard to deprive Steve of that.
He was making pancakes, and running a problem over in his mind. Steve had been asking a little recently, about Hydra. The first week, graphic descriptions of the murders he had performed to order had been enough to make Steve silent, aside from a squeeze to his arm and a "it wasn't your fault". Steve said that Bucky could tell him anything, and so far he had reacted kindly to everything he had been told.
But some of it was different. He understood that. It wasn't that Steve was a prude - just that it was one thing to accept that your friend had been brainwashed and made to kill, and another entirely to accept that he had rolled over for every Hydra agent who had asked. Steve was the best thing Bucky had ever had, in any stage of his life, and he needed to find a way of keeping him. Losing Steve wasn't an option, not again. Death would come first, if it had to.
Still, there was no need to do anything so drastic because Steve was poking around and asking about his time with Hydra. It wasn't even that he was opposed to telling him. Those arm squeezes and the promise it wasn't his fault that he had killed so many had been nice. He just had to do it right. He couldn't make a mistake. If he asked for help, expecting those touches, and instead Steve was repulsed, he would be ruined. He had nightmares about Steve finding some of the photographs or film, and telling Bucky he was disgusting. Or worse, of him finding out and never wanting to touch Bucky again. That would destroy him.
So he decided that he would find a way of testing it. To work out what Steve's response would be. If Steve responded acceptably, then he would be able to tell him, but if Steve was repulsed or angry, it would mean he couldn't push any further, that he couldn't ask any more questions. He just needed to work out how to ask.
He could start by talking about being groped perhaps. How sometimes when he was half-asleep in a transport the person sitting next to him would reach out and slide their hand into his pants - or more likely take his hand and put it in theirs. But the problem was that groping never was enough for them, and it wouldn't be long after that he was kneeling in the back of the jeep, hair streaked with filth and jaw aching. He didn't want to have to explain that. If Steve had seen him like that, surely he would have been revolted.
But part of Bucky hoped. Part of Bucky thought that telling the truth might lead to kindness rather than pain, and that part of him ached to tell Steve. Sometimes he worried Steve suspected, when he jumped when he was touched, or when he woke in the night screaming to find Steve in the room holding him down, stopping him lashing out. He wanted to say and be understood, to be forgiven for all the wrong he had done. But he couldn't risk being found out.
This thought had kept him up for a couple of days, with no resolution in sight. He headed to the gym, knowing that punching something that wouldn't fight back might at least start to untangle the anger and confusion in his stomach.
Natasha was already there, midway through a routine. Her movements were just as graceful as they had been with a child. She didn't look up as he took his position at the bag, and an idea began to form. It would be possible to tell Steve without risking everything, as long as he didn't know exactly what he was being told.