( that ragged huff of words imprints itself against the sensitive line of her neck, a single heated patter of his breath palming over her shoulder, running it's nails down along her spine before it settles in a hot, needy pang at the apex of her thighs. her thighs ache in use β lungs fastening tight around any bit of a breath they can find β and it gets to a point where she's using that headboard to help pull herself every time she's rocking forward, that helpless winding that brings her closer and closer urging her not to stop. she didn't want a sweet release, something soft and sapping, she wanted to utterly break within his arms, come apart at every seam and leave him cradling what's left behind.
and that's exactly what she does, and when that second crest of the night hits it's all she can do to cling to him, every bit of mind she has left intent to keep hips moving, riding with the lack of precision, the lazed, heady grind of her end. and that telling twitch of his cock before he's coating her just wrings her through another silvery throb.
when the two of them come down, him a few trembling moments after her, she can't bring herself to shift off of him, to move, to do anything but be right there with his forearm cradling her back, muscles within her arms and limbs giving a gratified sigh as that iron-wrought tension gives. her mouth's falling against the line of his shoulder, nosing there until she meets that near seamless greeting of flesh and metal β there's a slight rise of the skin, there, the swell of a scar, perhaps, and a single, ginger kiss is left there before she merely rests her cheek against broad muscle.
she's swallowing back a tiny whimper like an after-thought, reveling in the calm of simply being held. )
( her lips against against that seam brings another fragile fluttering exhale out of him. bucky is unaccustomed to anyone getting close enough to press a lingering touch to that exact spot where flesh gives way to metal, let alone with a kiss, and so he realises — learns — that he's sensitive there, a shiver running down his spine at the contact. he lets himself sink backwards, sagging back against the headboard and drawing karen with him, still cradled in his arms as she slumps onto his chest. he breathes out again, the breath ruffling her sweat-damp hair. still sheathed inside her, but both of them evidently reluctant to move from their positions just yet.
bucky's used to being tired from combat, from running on fumes for hours on end, from brutal physical battle and running for his life, but he's not used to this kind of exhaustion: satisfied. pleasant. simply enjoying the weight of her sprawled over him, his thumb running absentminded circles against her hip. )
Second time's the charm,
( he eventually says, and if she cranes her head to look up, she'll be able to see that faint curve of a smile on his lips. )
( as their sounds fade, there's nothing more than the delicate cacophony of rain beginning to drum against the roof, making it's lazy trails along the window panes. a blink, and she catches one of those streams merging with another, listening to the way his pulse echos in the cave of his chest so close to her, buried just beneath the press of her cheek. he speaks and she can feel it rumble within him, pressing another kiss to his collar, a second, before she's drawing herself up to meet their foreheads together once more, a commonplace, by now.
she grins, a sleepy sight. her lids are heavy, the unfamiliar beckoning of rest calling to her, and still the only thing she's sharply aware of is him. )
So they say.
( as long as you don't want me to go.
as willing as she was for sleep to find her, to nestle around them, what was to guarantee he'd still be there, by morning? it was easier than stitching together a goodbye, slipping from her during the night when she can't feel it; yet. she detests that these darker murmurs find her whenever she's met with something good, but ridding of them, the place they've found within her skull, is a feat that's none to easy to undo. carefully, she's lifting her hips, if only so she can settle atop him again more comfortably once he's slipped out of her like a breath, so there's nothing left to say she has to move, and when she folds against him again, it's with a contented sigh. )
( bucky's not used to sharing a bed with anyone anymore, and yet it's shockingly comfortable, the way she sprawls against him and jots her head against the crook of his human shoulder. the way they've arranged themselves in the bed, the favourite side she'd settled on, thankfully it means he can keep his metal arm on the other side away from her (an unconscious tic, even now). he shifts in the warm tangled sheets, tugs his briefs back into place, and settles until he's propped against her stack of pillows.
the question of leaving doesn't even occur to him. she said she wanted him to stay, and so he would. )
Thank you.
( he murmurs against the top of her head, lips brushing her hair. he's certain the main problem will be falling asleep at all, and yet as he sinks into the bed, the exhaustion rolls over him in a drowning wave, tugging at him with heavy weight. sinking beneath the water and feeling it nipping at his heels. even as it encroaches, the greatest surprise is realising that he could actually doze right here, just drift off with the gentle rise-and-fall of his chest under karen's chin, her hand splayed across his skin, her legs tangled in his. )
( when he moves, drifts them down further into the muss of sheets, each of her limbs follows as if they've done this before. as if they know just how to tangle with him, just where she fits for sleep to find her. her thigh nestles over top of his β warm there, still, a reminder β calves linking and a single arm bent against his chest, left just beneath her chin where she lies. exhaustion sweeps over the two of them like a blanket, otherwise leaving them half-hidden in sheets, blonde tendrils stirring against her spine when another breeze is let in through the curtains.
thank you. an affection pressed to her forehead, and she's left ruminating quietly just there beneath the hood of his jaw. she doesn't sit upright, instead, letting closed lids paint her for him, the tips of her fingers drawing mindless little circles against his chin. her tongue is lazy, used, but when she finally encourages it around the syllables that follow, it's reaching. )
( it feels so stupid and a little sad, now, thanking her for it like it's some kind of present or gift handed to him with both hands (even if, in a way, that is exactly what this is: precious, cherished, a gift). and he's not sure how to fill that gap and explain himself properly. thanks for the good sex? for the companionship? for inviting him over? for the opportunity to not be alone tonight? all of the above.
bucky's almost asleep, teetering right on that border where you might slip under, but he's still awake enough to mumble: )
( all she can muster is a hum, lolled from her tongue.
every one of her bones feels as if it's pulling, weighted, and that cloud of sleep brims all the further over the both of them til she's not so sure where she ends and he begins, anymore. and maybe if she were a bit more awake, she'd gently pry at that gratitude a bit further, expose those softer underbellies that hid beneath β maybe if they hadn't gone two rounds, reminded one another what it felt to be had. but she doesn't have to ask, not when it reaches her the way it does, when she understands what it is he's thanking her for beyond the touch, and she owes it to him in kind. perhaps come morning she'll find a way.
half-lidded, she's swiping a thumb beneath his collar before fingers sleepily stumble down to those tags once more, the very ones she'd used to lure him into that bed with her. JAMES B BARNES β lashes flutter β T42 -43B, and finally, finally they fall to a close. her ankle gives one last curl against his, and when she drifts it's with his taste on her tongue, hips and bottom growing into those love-bruises, every bit of her in that moment his. )
( he really, truly hadn't expected to fall asleep, and if so, especially not to fall asleep like this: utterly dead to the world.
bucky is a light sleeper even at the best of times — long habits, old history, always ready to wake up in the field to the patter of gunfire — and a restless one at that, usually only catching a couple hours before waking up, then falling back unconscious, wash rinse repeat. he'd half-expected having someone else in the bed with him would have made it even worse. that had been a thing, once: struggling to rest with the unaccustomed weight of someone else on the mattress beside you, a warm body tipping the scales askew, nerves bringing you out of your light slumber.
but there's something about the exhaustion that settles in after some a good, strenuous fuck which just knocks him out for the count. the weight of karen near him is more like a weighted blanket rather than an anvil; it turns out to be more soothing than disorienting. so he sleeps (almost the whole night through; only waking up once, and that alone is still a miracle).
when they eventually both stir, her body is a cacophony of small, pleasant aches; his own has bounced back quicker, that healing working away on it overnight, sweeping away the fatigue as if it had never been. he almost wishes it hadn't. he wants that wobbly-legged feeling of having used muscles he hasn't in so very long. wishes he had the reminder.
instead, though, at least there's this: karen's strawberry-blonde hair across the pillows, her face still burrowed against his chest. his human arm's fallen asleep where she's lying against it, and it's probably going to tingle with stinging pins-and-needles when she eventually moves — but that, too, is a pleasant ache. when the dawn sunlight through the curtains is enough that bucky notices it, he's awake — still too early, considering their late evening, but it was still a good few hours of rest. he breathes in; breathes out; looks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, lets his memories skitter around before they finally catch and he realises where he is. an unfamiliar ceiling doesn't have to be a terrible thing. it's fine. he's fine.
he's still in bed. with karen. in her bedroom. in her apartment.
all of these facts settle like keys in a lock. he exhales again, scrubs at his face with his metal hand. intellectually, it feels like the moment should be more awkward or uncomfortable than it is — what's morning-after etiquette like nowadays? another blank spot on the map that he's going to have to feel his way through — and yet bucky finds that he doesn't much mind. because it's nice. her bed is comfortable. having another warm body beside him— is comfortable. )
( when was the last time she'd managed to sleep without memories splintering through her, leaving her retching up from those sheets, palm splayed at her throat as if another had only just then released a bruising, restricting grip. she doesn't know. nights seemed to blur together, one frigid nightmare after the next, and days had quickly learned to follow β thumb at her tongue to catch at the edge of pages, the harsh glow of a screen reflecting back at her, the mindless sounds of the city behind her as she stayed too late in that office, burying herself in anything that wasn't herself.
as much as one would think there's a discomfort within that sort of rhythm β it became what she knew, became familiar, built some sort of home for her within it despite how dysfunctional, despite how harrowing. it didn't hold her kindly, but she's not too used to being held at all, and so maybe that's why she barely moves throughout the night. why limbs remain in their sleepy tangle with his β he anchors her in sleep in a way she doesn't understand. couldn't. something she doesn't dare venture to try, because if she figures it out, if she gets it all to make sense, she'll only then topple next into it's undoing.
here with him, there's no city around them. there's no memory, none of that tangible fear every time she naively thinks she's conquered it. there's only the rise and fall of his chest, letting it suspend her there β awash from the shore, but steady enough that she doesn't drift out too far.
when the world begins to tug at her again, it's in subtleties. toeing at the sheets β recognizing the warmth of his calve there. a flutter of lashes, enough to understand that it's morning, still early enough that the sun burns in citrus hues, not quite stretched to it's peak in the sky. and then slowly, and yet all at once, he comes back to her β the solidity of him beside her, beneath her, the barely-there brim of a pulse in his chest, reaching up to her cheek. she's still tired β one night of restful sleep didn't bode to make up for all the rest, but it's certainly a start β and there's a tiny sleep-sound that drifts from her lips, spine and limbs elongating into a stretch. gentle, unhurried.
yet, there's an unfamiliarity intruding here: to feel what it's like β for someone to stay. )
( ah, jesus christ. he couldn't even tell you when the last time was he'd gotten to wake up to this, to a beautiful woman stretching herself luxuriantly beside him, her whole body sprawling out in that flex of muscle and bare skin, that little noise in the back of her throat. it's a hell of a sight. when she shifts her weight slightly off his arm, his hand flexes, clenches into a fist, releases, trying to spur the bloodflow back. while he's still numb, he runs a fingertip down the line of her bare arm, thoughtful and contemplative.
karen's skin is warm from the covers and their shared body heat, almost like there's a radiant sun buried beneath her flesh, the warmth of a summer's day beside him. when his gaze moves up to her face — their faces are far too close to each other on those pillows, he's not used to peering at someone so near and within his personal space — his mouth settles into a smile. it transforms bucky's face from its habitual stony glower, makes him seem suddenly years younger, more carefree. )
( she's curled onto her side against him, wound by the subtlest touches β that sole fingertip running the column of her arm, the way he adjusts slightly beneath her weight, their figures sighing in unison with one another as they had unconsciously throughout the night, intent to follow, to stay. her hair's a golden halo alit with the sun creeping in behind her, bright along the slope of her, the curve of her waistline before milky flesh is hidden by an afterthought of sheets. he smiles something sweet, and god it's almost as if something within her breaks β a brief moment of clarity, burning the imagery to memory like film.
this. if only she could bottle exactly this.
there's a bashfulness that creeps up to her cheeks, swelling with a smile that's all teeth, and the arm that'd draped his chest raises to run two fingertips, one trailing just behind the other, along the stubble of his jaw. she can still feel him between her thighs, the ghost of his grasping at her hip. )
Hi there. ( those digits trail up, grazing along his cheek, the edge of his brow, before they're retracting to bundle up beneath her chin, both of them sharing the plush of the same pillow. teeth make purchase at her lips, a thoughtful chew, unable to rid of that smile of hers β marveling in the way his eyes speckle with morning. )
( it's maybe not a shock that bucky doesn't usually sleep well. he doesn't go into it, though, doesn't supply the additional detail of hey i usually suffer from horrific nightmares, but i slept well beside you. that feels like too much; maybe it'd be making more of this than he ought to, more of this than whatever... this is. whatever she's willing to let it be.
but for now, he can just savour it. the bed is still too soft, feels like it has way too much give and his spine isn't used to it, but being tangled up in her makes up for it. they might be all stale sweat and tacky skin from last night, but compared to the alternatives he's had to sleep in over the years — dried blood, mud — he's not complaining about this. )
How about you? Sorry if I turned the bed into a furnace or something. I kind of— overheat.
( it's something to do with that circulation, his persistent pulse and homeostasis and how his body doesn't let itself get too cold; more inadvertent little side-effects of the serum, everyday touches that nobody really could have predicted. his body runs hot, steady and warm beneath her hands. )
( he doesn't need to say it. the 'for once' tells the story for him β yet another soul in which sleep hardly favored. she'd noticed it the first night she'd had him beneath the dewy light of her kitchen, when his gaze had set adamantly across the room, the lack of rest that bundled beneath them, that left a set of startlingly attractive features, in a way, hollow. but it's more what kept the sleep at bay than the lack of sleep itself, wasn't it? it's one thing to be restless, but another to tend the harrowing company that wards it away. )
Better than I have in... awhile.
( she, too, will let that speak for itself, hold its own tongue.
her own tone is still sticky with sleep, lingering in the weight of her bones, every bit unwilling to leave that bed with him inside of it β the only possible temptation tugging at the recesses of her mind is the idea of a shower, the piping pellets of water soothing over worked, pleased muscles. karen's pressing up onto her elbow, breasts hugged beneath her arms, the outer of his as she leans in, plants a kiss at the edge of his mouth, next, the heart of his throat where teeth give a gentle nip. a sigh is left there. )
Mmhβyou save me the investment. ( teasing; mostly. he does β burn to the touch, but she finds it soothing more than anything else, what with every attempt to skirt a too-high electric bill and windows left slightly agape, she could afford the extra warmth with the indecisive skies of spring in the city. she realizes then, nuzzled in to his pulse point, how easily she could get wrapped up in this again β him, a neediness she's hardly used to catering no bit shy to present itself. only she tucks it down, for now. )
I'm going to shower. ( as much as she wants to believe he'd be one to say something before he slipped out of that apartment, sometimes the quieter route was easiest. she wouldn't hold it against him. mouth finds his, a grateful kiss there between her words. )
There's coffee. ( another, almost as if she's chasing them as she starts to withdraw from the limbs of those sheets, a grin fracturing her kisses a bit. ) Help yourself.
( they're both a little more shy and bashful in the warm light of day, with everything bared to view rather than puddled in the darkness of past midnight. it's paradoxically more intimate, somehow, when there's no hiding from it or each other — and with all those lingering kisses, karen's mouth against his neck and his lips, it would be so easy to get lost in this again. all that stretch of bare skin in front of him, where it would be simple to lean in and deepen that kiss even further, for his body to sprawl over hers again, for hands to go roaming.
but if they start up that machinery again, they're literally never getting out of this bed. so when karen regretfully pulls away to go take a shower, bucky chases her with just one last kiss before he lets her go. )
Got it. I will.
( and as she pads away, he just lies there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before he finally rolls out of the bed and goes padding through the apartment in bare feet and boxers — he sheepishly gathers up their scattered clothes along the way, the evidence of their particularly heated evening, and he makes two neat piles on the sofa before continuing to the kitchen. going through the motions, the disorienting act of poking through an unfamiliar place and trying to find where she's stashed everything. making himself at home, which feels like a subtle intrusion even when he knows he was invited. rummaging through the cabinets, he finds the ground coffee and french press, sets it steeping for a few minutes.
he could slip out. but of course he won't. bucky wends his way back to the bedroom instead — shower's still running — and settles himself back in bed. he's not one for phones, so instead of mucking around on his, he's nabbed a book from one of her many shelves. by the tome karen comes back, he's still there: buried in the sheets, book open on the covers as he reads, coffee mug balanced against his knee and cradled in his metal hand, uncaring of the heat. he glances up. )
( she's rummaging through one of her drawers before she slips from the room, and even once he's out of sight she can still feel the weight of him in that apartment β it's not something she's accustomed to, having another there with her, lingering while she ran the water, testing her fingers beneath it while the pipes slowly worked over their chill. karen's used to her own company, an unspoken knowing that the rest of those rooms were empty, waiting for her to color them again; instead, another keeps them warm. when she steps beneath the water, she can't help but to sigh as it passes over her, draws valleys between her breasts, hugs to every inch of her as streams divert and join.
and it's almost as if those hands, his hands of his are smoothing down along her again. the piping temperature of the water soothes over the marks he's left behind, the faded impression of his palm at her bottom, the purplish hue he'd left at her throat, where teeth had marred and tongue suckled. she swallows, and it only dawns on her just how damned she is when even here, alone beneath that pattering water, all she can feel is him.
it's a dazed set of motions, lathering fingers through her hair, tracing the soap along the round of her shoulder, sapping out every bit of heat from the building til the water turns tepid. opaque glass slides open, and for a beat, she wishes she had something a bit more enticing to change into. yet as she makes her way back towards her room, there's a simple t-shirt covering her upper half, peaks of her breasts apparent as the dew of the shower still clings to her collars, leaves a reddened sheen at her cheeks. lounge shorts hug her hips, and the sight of him β half tangled in those sheets, cradling a coffee and a book, it captures her. entirely. a tugging at her heart, and she lingers in the doorway a moment, waist jutting against the frame, golden strands a bit paler, heavy with shower water.
she's chewing at her brims, and as eyes find his that smile festers at her lips, almost as if in waiting. )
( bucky had run his fingers along the edges of the books on her shelves — some of them unread, but others with worn spines, which was a good sign — in the search for something to occupy him. he'd finally settled on something with bite-sized pieces that he could dip in and out of without needing to commit to a longer plot, something with a name he recognised even back in the day, and so he holds it up now for her inspection. the complete short stories of ernest hemingway.
even in the first few pages, he'd quickly stumbled across something unexpected: karen's neat handwriting underlining a passage from the preface:
In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.
a fitting quote, for an investigative journalist. for someone who fought every day with the pen, and who meant to use it to have something to say.
while sipping at his coffee, he'd flipped through the short stories until he'd landed on "soldier's home", although the description of the WWI soldier's listless ennui settled too close-to-home, a prickling ache like a shard lodged in sergeant barnes' own heart.
He did not want any consequences. He did not want any consequences ever again. He wanted to live along without consequences.
he folds the book shut. he'd prefer for his gaze to drink in the sight of her. karen doesn't need lingerie or enticing clothing; just those long legs in the lounge shorts, the curves of her in that simple tee, is already enough to rev his engine again, and bucky presses down the thought like he's chiding some unruly animal. (down, boy.) they've opened a door, cracked open a box, nudged a snowball into motion, and he finds himself wondering how much he can ask for. how much he's allowed.
bucky hops back to his feet, crosses the room, and presses the half-empty coffee mug into her hands. )
Can I, uh, ( and he hesitates, mulling over how his mouth feels woolly and stale, and his body grimy from the night's activities. )
( it speaks for itself, a living thing with a beating heart: that not only had he stayed, but he'd fixed a coffee, dug into one of the dozens of books on those shelves much like she would on a rare morning off. the used grounds from the french press still waft pungent scarves of espresso about the apartment, entice her to pour a cup of her own, but he arrests her attention entirely when he shifts from the mattress. her eyes roam, not with hunger but a soft appreciation; never once had he walked towards her in so little, she's only a woman, drunk off the sight of him while she can be.
he presses the mug towards her belly, and she accepts it blindly. it doesn't burn to the touch but it's still warm. she wonders idly just how many times he can give her exactly what it is she needs without her asking for it.
he's left the book behind, split and touched, and there's a humming curiosity as to the page she'd taken him from.
she likes the way his hair's in a short disarray from sleep, from her tugging, the breadth of his shoulders and the dog tags that hang obediently above his sternum β a reminder of his story, all of the men he's been. there's a lingering of mint on her tongue. she doesn't have much to offer in the way of something to change into, but the least she can do is grant him that small bit of comfort, stripping a morning anew. )
Of course.
( she wants to kiss him, see how much of herself she can still find there β but the daylight and the two of them having detangled from that bed has a way of shying her. )
There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the closet. ( fingertips tap along the side of the mug, and she almost feels silly for asking β he'd stayed this long, she doesn't want to press her luck. )
Breakfast? ( lips tuck together pensively, a raise of her brow. she should be able to prepare something simple enough while he showers, if he'll indulge her his company a little longer. )
Thanks. And yeah, that'd be great. ( he flashes her a smile. all of this is wandering into foreign territory, uncharted worlds on the map. not that he's used to fleeing, exactly, but he's not used to this part either: someone else's home, occupying space in it, making himself at home within it. but karen keeps inviting him to, so bucky rolls with it: pops back out into the living room, grabs his clothes and the towel, and then vanishes into the bathroom while she gets started on breakfast.
technically, maybe they could've shared the shower, maybe he could've joined her. but it had felt like it'd be asking for too much. so he just settles into it alone, letting it wash away the previous night. most of the hot water's already gone, the pipes whining as they try to keep up, but that's honestly fine with him; he'd had months shivering in the field during the war, and then even in his years as an assassin, it had been less luxury hotels, more shitty off-grid apartments in eastern europe. so he could do with a quick, bracing shower, and cold to tamp him down again, give him some chance of surviving the morning without just corralling karen again.
he's got eighty years to make up for, so sue him.
when bucky rejoins her in the living area, his hair and the neck of his shirt is still damp and his clothes rumpled from the evening before, but at least he feels refreshed. his hair smells like her women's shampoo, notes of coconut and vanilla, but he doesn't really seem to mind. he leans against the island to watch her work, elbows propped against its edge, and so it isn't entirely lost on him that they've accidentally drifted back into the positions that kicked off the whole evening. (the bottle's still on the counter. whoops.)
but, then, the first question from his lips is probably an unexpected one: )
( it's only once the familiar patter of her shower fills the apartment again that she realizes just how illy prepared her place was for visitors β books and case files left in a mindful scatter, thermostat low and hardly enough food in the fridge for her to make it mid way through the week. she's used to late night coffee runs and living off of the small, tucked away delis and cafes that keep a quiet company. she does, at least, have the basics: a loaf of bread, a few eggs left in the fridge and cinnamon tucked away somewhere in her cupboards, frequently sprinkled into tea. it affords something decent, carefully tended french toast for the pair of them, the last pair currently on the stove as the hum of the water ceases.
she doesn't need the water to tell her he's finished, she's learned every odd creak here and there about those floorboards to note his entry, and a brief glance up gives a quick study: the way the water clung what lingered of it's heat to his cheeks, how his skin was almost dew-like, eyes ever-more blue with the darkened slick of his hair. it's a childlike look, in a way, untouched if it weren't for the slight crumple she'd made of his shirt. lips tuck in beneath her teeth at the thought, focus shifting back to the pan.
it's something she's made often enough to know that the moment she let her attention stray elsewhere, the bread would burn, so as the question reaches over her shoulder from the island, she's giving a thoughtful hum, but doesn't turn to face him quite yet. unexpected, indeed β simple in a way that almost humors her. when had she last been asked something so light? )
That's a tough question.
( her moods shifted so readily, and honestly, she can't remember the last time she's even made it to a film. the last time she'd allowed herself to sit through one entirely without digging out a journal, or chewing the edge of her thumb near raw. she's not one for sitting still, but she sifts her memory nonetheless, stretching up onto her toes (calves giving a pleasureful little groan in protest) until fingers blindly find the small spice container. a sprinkle while it browns, and a beat later she's swiping the slices onto another plate, serving one from each hand atop the island. )
One's sort of a testament to being alone, the gift that it is, and the other's just... frenetic passion. The opposite of being alone. Having someone. Messy. ( she mulls her thoughts a moment, digging out a fork for each of them, syrup and butter already left atop the wood. )
Somehow, the way it's filmed manages to make them both feel exactly the same.
( there's a pause while he listens, taking it all in, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; karen's passion for the movie is undeniable, and it's endearing. getting to hear from someone who has so many thoughts about a film and how it's crafted. maybe part of him is always vicariously living through other people's passions this way (he doesn't have much of them himself), but it's nice. he's slowly filling in his own gaps anyway, building up that vocabulary too.
it was probably initially inscrutable as he reached for the jacket, but now it's pretty obvious what he's doing, as he closes the book again and taps the pen against the cover. )
I'm keeping a list of moves I've gotta watch. This sounds classier than most of the stuff people have been recommending, but I'm into it. You'd think I might have some insights about 1969, too, but I missed that year.
( the last thing he remembers from around then was 1963. the kennedy job. he'd been put back on ice afterward for a while.
karen's words are still lingering with him, even while he accepts a plate of french toast, starts to cut it into pieces. the opposite of being alone. two worlds divided by time but inherently the same. one foot in the past, one in the present. he's pretty sure he can relate. )
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and that's exactly what she does, and when that second crest of the night hits it's all she can do to cling to him, every bit of mind she has left intent to keep hips moving, riding with the lack of precision, the lazed, heady grind of her end. and that telling twitch of his cock before he's coating her just wrings her through another silvery throb.
when the two of them come down, him a few trembling moments after her, she can't bring herself to shift off of him, to move, to do anything but be right there with his forearm cradling her back, muscles within her arms and limbs giving a gratified sigh as that iron-wrought tension gives. her mouth's falling against the line of his shoulder, nosing there until she meets that near seamless greeting of flesh and metal β there's a slight rise of the skin, there, the swell of a scar, perhaps, and a single, ginger kiss is left there before she merely rests her cheek against broad muscle.
she's swallowing back a tiny whimper like an after-thought, reveling in the calm of simply being held. )
no subject
bucky's used to being tired from combat, from running on fumes for hours on end, from brutal physical battle and running for his life, but he's not used to this kind of exhaustion: satisfied. pleasant. simply enjoying the weight of her sprawled over him, his thumb running absentminded circles against her hip. )
Second time's the charm,
( he eventually says, and if she cranes her head to look up, she'll be able to see that faint curve of a smile on his lips. )
no subject
she grins, a sleepy sight. her lids are heavy, the unfamiliar beckoning of rest calling to her, and still the only thing she's sharply aware of is him. )
So they say.
( as long as you don't want me to go.
as willing as she was for sleep to find her, to nestle around them, what was to guarantee he'd still be there, by morning? it was easier than stitching together a goodbye, slipping from her during the night when she can't feel it; yet. she detests that these darker murmurs find her whenever she's met with something good, but ridding of them, the place they've found within her skull, is a feat that's none to easy to undo. carefully, she's lifting her hips, if only so she can settle atop him again more comfortably once he's slipped out of her like a breath, so there's nothing left to say she has to move, and when she folds against him again, it's with a contented sigh. )
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the question of leaving doesn't even occur to him. she said she wanted him to stay, and so he would. )
Thank you.
( he murmurs against the top of her head, lips brushing her hair. he's certain the main problem will be falling asleep at all, and yet as he sinks into the bed, the exhaustion rolls over him in a drowning wave, tugging at him with heavy weight. sinking beneath the water and feeling it nipping at his heels. even as it encroaches, the greatest surprise is realising that he could actually doze right here, just drift off with the gentle rise-and-fall of his chest under karen's chin, her hand splayed across his skin, her legs tangled in his. )
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thank you. an affection pressed to her forehead, and she's left ruminating quietly just there beneath the hood of his jaw. she doesn't sit upright, instead, letting closed lids paint her for him, the tips of her fingers drawing mindless little circles against his chin. her tongue is lazy, used, but when she finally encourages it around the syllables that follow, it's reaching. )
What are you thanking me for?
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bucky's almost asleep, teetering right on that border where you might slip under, but he's still awake enough to mumble: )
Just— for everything.
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every one of her bones feels as if it's pulling, weighted, and that cloud of sleep brims all the further over the both of them til she's not so sure where she ends and he begins, anymore. and maybe if she were a bit more awake, she'd gently pry at that gratitude a bit further, expose those softer underbellies that hid beneath β maybe if they hadn't gone two rounds, reminded one another what it felt to be had. but she doesn't have to ask, not when it reaches her the way it does, when she understands what it is he's thanking her for beyond the touch, and she owes it to him in kind. perhaps come morning she'll find a way.
half-lidded, she's swiping a thumb beneath his collar before fingers sleepily stumble down to those tags once more, the very ones she'd used to lure him into that bed with her. JAMES B BARNES β lashes flutter β T42 -43B, and finally, finally they fall to a close. her ankle gives one last curl against his, and when she drifts it's with his taste on her tongue, hips and bottom growing into those love-bruises, every bit of her in that moment his. )
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bucky is a light sleeper even at the best of times — long habits, old history, always ready to wake up in the field to the patter of gunfire — and a restless one at that, usually only catching a couple hours before waking up, then falling back unconscious, wash rinse repeat. he'd half-expected having someone else in the bed with him would have made it even worse. that had been a thing, once: struggling to rest with the unaccustomed weight of someone else on the mattress beside you, a warm body tipping the scales askew, nerves bringing you out of your light slumber.
but there's something about the exhaustion that settles in after some a good, strenuous fuck which just knocks him out for the count. the weight of karen near him is more like a weighted blanket rather than an anvil; it turns out to be more soothing than disorienting. so he sleeps (almost the whole night through; only waking up once, and that alone is still a miracle).
when they eventually both stir, her body is a cacophony of small, pleasant aches; his own has bounced back quicker, that healing working away on it overnight, sweeping away the fatigue as if it had never been. he almost wishes it hadn't. he wants that wobbly-legged feeling of having used muscles he hasn't in so very long. wishes he had the reminder.
instead, though, at least there's this: karen's strawberry-blonde hair across the pillows, her face still burrowed against his chest. his human arm's fallen asleep where she's lying against it, and it's probably going to tingle with stinging pins-and-needles when she eventually moves — but that, too, is a pleasant ache. when the dawn sunlight through the curtains is enough that bucky notices it, he's awake — still too early, considering their late evening, but it was still a good few hours of rest. he breathes in; breathes out; looks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, lets his memories skitter around before they finally catch and he realises where he is. an unfamiliar ceiling doesn't have to be a terrible thing. it's fine. he's fine.
he's still in bed. with karen. in her bedroom. in her apartment.
all of these facts settle like keys in a lock. he exhales again, scrubs at his face with his metal hand. intellectually, it feels like the moment should be more awkward or uncomfortable than it is — what's morning-after etiquette like nowadays? another blank spot on the map that he's going to have to feel his way through — and yet bucky finds that he doesn't much mind. because it's nice. her bed is comfortable. having another warm body beside him— is comfortable. )
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as much as one would think there's a discomfort within that sort of rhythm β it became what she knew, became familiar, built some sort of home for her within it despite how dysfunctional, despite how harrowing. it didn't hold her kindly, but she's not too used to being held at all, and so maybe that's why she barely moves throughout the night. why limbs remain in their sleepy tangle with his β he anchors her in sleep in a way she doesn't understand. couldn't. something she doesn't dare venture to try, because if she figures it out, if she gets it all to make sense, she'll only then topple next into it's undoing.
here with him, there's no city around them. there's no memory, none of that tangible fear every time she naively thinks she's conquered it. there's only the rise and fall of his chest, letting it suspend her there β awash from the shore, but steady enough that she doesn't drift out too far.
when the world begins to tug at her again, it's in subtleties. toeing at the sheets β recognizing the warmth of his calve there. a flutter of lashes, enough to understand that it's morning, still early enough that the sun burns in citrus hues, not quite stretched to it's peak in the sky. and then slowly, and yet all at once, he comes back to her β the solidity of him beside her, beneath her, the barely-there brim of a pulse in his chest, reaching up to her cheek. she's still tired β one night of restful sleep didn't bode to make up for all the rest, but it's certainly a start β and there's a tiny sleep-sound that drifts from her lips, spine and limbs elongating into a stretch. gentle, unhurried.
yet, there's an unfamiliarity intruding here: to feel what it's like β for someone to stay. )
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karen's skin is warm from the covers and their shared body heat, almost like there's a radiant sun buried beneath her flesh, the warmth of a summer's day beside him. when his gaze moves up to her face — their faces are far too close to each other on those pillows, he's not used to peering at someone so near and within his personal space — his mouth settles into a smile. it transforms bucky's face from its habitual stony glower, makes him seem suddenly years younger, more carefree. )
Hey.
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this. if only she could bottle exactly this.
there's a bashfulness that creeps up to her cheeks, swelling with a smile that's all teeth, and the arm that'd draped his chest raises to run two fingertips, one trailing just behind the other, along the stubble of his jaw. she can still feel him between her thighs, the ghost of his grasping at her hip. )
Hi there. ( those digits trail up, grazing along his cheek, the edge of his brow, before they're retracting to bundle up beneath her chin, both of them sharing the plush of the same pillow. teeth make purchase at her lips, a thoughtful chew, unable to rid of that smile of hers β marveling in the way his eyes speckle with morning. )
You sleep okay?
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( it's maybe not a shock that bucky doesn't usually sleep well. he doesn't go into it, though, doesn't supply the additional detail of hey i usually suffer from horrific nightmares, but i slept well beside you. that feels like too much; maybe it'd be making more of this than he ought to, more of this than whatever... this is. whatever she's willing to let it be.
but for now, he can just savour it. the bed is still too soft, feels like it has way too much give and his spine isn't used to it, but being tangled up in her makes up for it. they might be all stale sweat and tacky skin from last night, but compared to the alternatives he's had to sleep in over the years — dried blood, mud — he's not complaining about this. )
How about you? Sorry if I turned the bed into a furnace or something. I kind of— overheat.
( it's something to do with that circulation, his persistent pulse and homeostasis and how his body doesn't let itself get too cold; more inadvertent little side-effects of the serum, everyday touches that nobody really could have predicted. his body runs hot, steady and warm beneath her hands. )
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Better than I have in... awhile.
( she, too, will let that speak for itself, hold its own tongue.
her own tone is still sticky with sleep, lingering in the weight of her bones, every bit unwilling to leave that bed with him inside of it β the only possible temptation tugging at the recesses of her mind is the idea of a shower, the piping pellets of water soothing over worked, pleased muscles. karen's pressing up onto her elbow, breasts hugged beneath her arms, the outer of his as she leans in, plants a kiss at the edge of his mouth, next, the heart of his throat where teeth give a gentle nip. a sigh is left there. )
Mmhβyou save me the investment. ( teasing; mostly. he does β burn to the touch, but she finds it soothing more than anything else, what with every attempt to skirt a too-high electric bill and windows left slightly agape, she could afford the extra warmth with the indecisive skies of spring in the city. she realizes then, nuzzled in to his pulse point, how easily she could get wrapped up in this again β him, a neediness she's hardly used to catering no bit shy to present itself. only she tucks it down, for now. )
I'm going to shower. ( as much as she wants to believe he'd be one to say something before he slipped out of that apartment, sometimes the quieter route was easiest. she wouldn't hold it against him. mouth finds his, a grateful kiss there between her words. )
There's coffee. ( another, almost as if she's chasing them as she starts to withdraw from the limbs of those sheets, a grin fracturing her kisses a bit. ) Help yourself.
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but if they start up that machinery again, they're literally never getting out of this bed. so when karen regretfully pulls away to go take a shower, bucky chases her with just one last kiss before he lets her go. )
Got it. I will.
( and as she pads away, he just lies there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before he finally rolls out of the bed and goes padding through the apartment in bare feet and boxers — he sheepishly gathers up their scattered clothes along the way, the evidence of their particularly heated evening, and he makes two neat piles on the sofa before continuing to the kitchen. going through the motions, the disorienting act of poking through an unfamiliar place and trying to find where she's stashed everything. making himself at home, which feels like a subtle intrusion even when he knows he was invited. rummaging through the cabinets, he finds the ground coffee and french press, sets it steeping for a few minutes.
he could slip out. but of course he won't. bucky wends his way back to the bedroom instead — shower's still running — and settles himself back in bed. he's not one for phones, so instead of mucking around on his, he's nabbed a book from one of her many shelves. by the tome karen comes back, he's still there: buried in the sheets, book open on the covers as he reads, coffee mug balanced against his knee and cradled in his metal hand, uncaring of the heat. he glances up. )
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and it's almost as if those hands, his hands of his are smoothing down along her again. the piping temperature of the water soothes over the marks he's left behind, the faded impression of his palm at her bottom, the purplish hue he'd left at her throat, where teeth had marred and tongue suckled. she swallows, and it only dawns on her just how damned she is when even here, alone beneath that pattering water, all she can feel is him.
it's a dazed set of motions, lathering fingers through her hair, tracing the soap along the round of her shoulder, sapping out every bit of heat from the building til the water turns tepid. opaque glass slides open, and for a beat, she wishes she had something a bit more enticing to change into. yet as she makes her way back towards her room, there's a simple t-shirt covering her upper half, peaks of her breasts apparent as the dew of the shower still clings to her collars, leaves a reddened sheen at her cheeks. lounge shorts hug her hips, and the sight of him β half tangled in those sheets, cradling a coffee and a book, it captures her. entirely. a tugging at her heart, and she lingers in the doorway a moment, waist jutting against the frame, golden strands a bit paler, heavy with shower water.
she's chewing at her brims, and as eyes find his that smile festers at her lips, almost as if in waiting. )
What are you reading?
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even in the first few pages, he'd quickly stumbled across something unexpected: karen's neat handwriting underlining a passage from the preface:
a fitting quote, for an investigative journalist. for someone who fought every day with the pen, and who meant to use it to have something to say.
while sipping at his coffee, he'd flipped through the short stories until he'd landed on "soldier's home", although the description of the WWI soldier's listless ennui settled too close-to-home, a prickling ache like a shard lodged in sergeant barnes' own heart.
he folds the book shut. he'd prefer for his gaze to drink in the sight of her. karen doesn't need lingerie or enticing clothing; just those long legs in the lounge shorts, the curves of her in that simple tee, is already enough to rev his engine again, and bucky presses down the thought like he's chiding some unruly animal. (down, boy.) they've opened a door, cracked open a box, nudged a snowball into motion, and he finds himself wondering how much he can ask for. how much he's allowed.
bucky hops back to his feet, crosses the room, and presses the half-empty coffee mug into her hands. )
Can I, uh, ( and he hesitates, mulling over how his mouth feels woolly and stale, and his body grimy from the night's activities. )
Is it okay if I use your shower, too?
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he presses the mug towards her belly, and she accepts it blindly. it doesn't burn to the touch but it's still warm. she wonders idly just how many times he can give her exactly what it is she needs without her asking for it.
he's left the book behind, split and touched, and there's a humming curiosity as to the page she'd taken him from.
she likes the way his hair's in a short disarray from sleep, from her tugging, the breadth of his shoulders and the dog tags that hang obediently above his sternum β a reminder of his story, all of the men he's been. there's a lingering of mint on her tongue. she doesn't have much to offer in the way of something to change into, but the least she can do is grant him that small bit of comfort, stripping a morning anew. )
Of course.
( she wants to kiss him, see how much of herself she can still find there β but the daylight and the two of them having detangled from that bed has a way of shying her. )
There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the closet. ( fingertips tap along the side of the mug, and she almost feels silly for asking β he'd stayed this long, she doesn't want to press her luck. )
Breakfast? ( lips tuck together pensively, a raise of her brow. she should be able to prepare something simple enough while he showers, if he'll indulge her his company a little longer. )
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technically, maybe they could've shared the shower, maybe he could've joined her. but it had felt like it'd be asking for too much. so he just settles into it alone, letting it wash away the previous night. most of the hot water's already gone, the pipes whining as they try to keep up, but that's honestly fine with him; he'd had months shivering in the field during the war, and then even in his years as an assassin, it had been less luxury hotels, more shitty off-grid apartments in eastern europe. so he could do with a quick, bracing shower, and cold to tamp him down again, give him some chance of surviving the morning without just corralling karen again.
he's got eighty years to make up for, so sue him.
when bucky rejoins her in the living area, his hair and the neck of his shirt is still damp and his clothes rumpled from the evening before, but at least he feels refreshed. his hair smells like her women's shampoo, notes of coconut and vanilla, but he doesn't really seem to mind. he leans against the island to watch her work, elbows propped against its edge, and so it isn't entirely lost on him that they've accidentally drifted back into the positions that kicked off the whole evening. (the bottle's still on the counter. whoops.)
but, then, the first question from his lips is probably an unexpected one: )
Hey. What's your favourite movie?
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she doesn't need the water to tell her he's finished, she's learned every odd creak here and there about those floorboards to note his entry, and a brief glance up gives a quick study: the way the water clung what lingered of it's heat to his cheeks, how his skin was almost dew-like, eyes ever-more blue with the darkened slick of his hair. it's a childlike look, in a way, untouched if it weren't for the slight crumple she'd made of his shirt. lips tuck in beneath her teeth at the thought, focus shifting back to the pan.
it's something she's made often enough to know that the moment she let her attention stray elsewhere, the bread would burn, so as the question reaches over her shoulder from the island, she's giving a thoughtful hum, but doesn't turn to face him quite yet. unexpected, indeed β simple in a way that almost humors her. when had she last been asked something so light? )
That's a tough question.
( her moods shifted so readily, and honestly, she can't remember the last time she's even made it to a film. the last time she'd allowed herself to sit through one entirely without digging out a journal, or chewing the edge of her thumb near raw. she's not one for sitting still, but she sifts her memory nonetheless, stretching up onto her toes (calves giving a pleasureful little groan in protest) until fingers blindly find the small spice container. a sprinkle while it browns, and a beat later she's swiping the slices onto another plate, serving one from each hand atop the island. )
I'm not sure if there's one in particular, but... CafΓ© de Flore. ( it's not a definitive answer, but a wisp gathered before it slipped back into the dark. ) A french film. It shifts between 1969 and 2011, two entirely different worlds, different people, still strung together through time. They never meet, it'sβinstances. Small things connecting them.
One's sort of a testament to being alone, the gift that it is, and the other's just... frenetic passion. The opposite of being alone. Having someone. Messy. ( she mulls her thoughts a moment, digging out a fork for each of them, syrup and butter already left atop the wood. )
Somehow, the way it's filmed manages to make them both feel exactly the same.
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when she finishes the description, bucky reaches for his jacket where it's still puddled on the bench, digs out a pocket-sized notebook and a pen, and he scribbles cafΓ© de flores on a new page. it's sitting alongside the other pop culture references scribbled on the opposite side: mad max, men in black, jurassic park.
it was probably initially inscrutable as he reached for the jacket, but now it's pretty obvious what he's doing, as he closes the book again and taps the pen against the cover. )
I'm keeping a list of moves I've gotta watch. This sounds classier than most of the stuff people have been recommending, but I'm into it. You'd think I might have some insights about 1969, too, but I missed that year.
( the last thing he remembers from around then was 1963. the kennedy job. he'd been put back on ice afterward for a while.
karen's words are still lingering with him, even while he accepts a plate of french toast, starts to cut it into pieces. the opposite of being alone. two worlds divided by time but inherently the same. one foot in the past, one in the present. he's pretty sure he can relate. )
This breakfast looks great.