hand in unlovable hand

by steviepie

Summary:

Sam had mentioned Steve’s mood in his text, had told Bucky that their most recent mission hadn’t gone as planned and that Steve would most likely need some space, something Steve usually hated having when trying to take advantage of their visits. Sam had said it wasn’t good, and Bucky had thought he was prepared for it. He was prepared for not good, for less than okay.

But he wasn’t prepared for this.

(alternatively: the wakanda boxing wraps fic)

Notes:

to stress the tags again: steve does hurt himself by using a punching bag past the point of blood in this fic as a point of focus and also implies a lack of value on his own life. if this is a No Go for you, here is the fair warning! stay safe either way.

Steve’s hands have always been somewhat of a pride point for him, something that started well before the serum enlarged them past their initially slender starting point. And as with almost everything that came with his smaller size, protecting them was a paradox, because while they were possibly the most precious part of his body in regards to his love for creating art, they were also the most prominent part of his body when it came to throwing a punch. 

When he was small, Steve didn’t have a shield or any other extension to fight with his opponent held further back, which meant that he was having to throw punches a lot. Not all of them were good ones. In fact, most of them weren’t, though Bucky eventually did his best to at least teach Steve good form, if only to try and help him hold down the fort during his fights before help could come along. Help being Bucky, because as much as he loved Steve even then, he also had to admit that the sight of him spitting mad would probably deter most good Samaritans. 

As he said before, Steve’s hands have always contained a large sense of his pride, and that didn’t stop even when they were held up high, fighting to stay steady as whatever lowlife he’d provoked circled close. Steve’s hands have always been meant for more than just a fight. 

They’re still one of Bucky’s favorite things about him, whether they be about to throw a half cocked punch or pressed to a paper working on a drawing, back then usually done for a commission rather than just for fun. They couldn’t always spare the supplies for Steve to show off his skill as much as Bucky would have liked, though they each tried to save their spare change to go into the outlets that they could afford. 

Steve’s was sketching, as his cluttered collection of notebooks found back under his barely used side of the beds would suggest. Bucky had never quite had the same ability when it came to art. There his hobby was something a little different, and as his mother liked to fret, far more dangerous. His pastime required its own respective of his hands, only his palms were wrapped in gloves rather than around a gouache paint. 

Bucky’s hands have always been a pride point too, only not nearly in a way as nuanced as Steve’s, even when all ten of his fingers were made of flesh. They used to be back then. Back when boxing was pretty much an integral part of him. Steve may have been the fighter on the sidewalks, on the streets, but Bucky was the real one when it came to stepping inside a ring. 

He enjoyed it, maybe too much. His father always looked pleased when his winning streak was brought up, but his mother never seemed to be happy about it, so Bucky always tried not to talk about it around the Sunday dinner table too much, but if he had defeated a particularly powerful opponent that week, sometimes he couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t like boxing down at the Y was going to be what killed him, he reckoned. 

He ended up being right about that. Being taken out by a train- if only temporarily- sure as hell fell under the umbrella of something else. 

Either way, Y was at the time one of the most clean cut places to find a competition around. The conditions under which Bucky fought were still a lot more fair than what sort of thing Steve tended to instigate almost every other day in every other alley. If the Y had had a weight class that Steve fell into, Bucky would have suggested that Steve join in on the boxing matches himself, but as things were when he was small and even more easily irritable… Bucky didn’t want to inadvertently insult his best pal’s honor or hurt his best guy’s feelings, and unfortunately there were no fights set up for guys who fell under a hundred pounds. 

Steve couldn’t box, just like Bucky couldn’t sketch, but that didn’t mean Bucky was about to give up on teaching him how to hold his own. If Steve was gonna keep picking those fights, Bucky figured that he might as well help teach Steve how to do it right. A good form, a proper punch, which foot to lead with, how to lay someone out even while laying low- those were the things he was aiming on teaching Steve how to do, all in the name of keeping his pretty face and those artist’s hands safe. 

Steve’s hands may have been a pride point for him, but for Bucky- he fell in love with the whole damn package, and he now knows quite literally that losing Steve would be worse than the loss of a limb. Steve’s hands went through enough pain, right along with the rest of him thanks to the rheumatism, and Bucky had known that not being able to use them would leave the younger man feeling useless. Breaking a finger- not being able to create, not being able to try and fight back? It may as well have been like breaking his heart instead, and as his best friend and at that point boyfriend, Bucky had wanted to spare him from that. 

He would have spared him from every ailment and ache if he could have, but helping Steve learn how to protect himself while also protecting his hands was about the best he could do. Bucky may have been the better student between them, but Steve had been more than happy to learn, just like Bucky had been more than happy to be able to boss him. Steve had been less than happy about that part, but Bucky had insisted the strerness was necessary to start with, as were the gloves, knee pads, and headgear. 

Looking back, all of that may have been a little excessive, but looking forward, Bucky finds himself wishing that Steve were wearing even a single layer of protection now. Then again, with what Bucky’s looking at, he doesn’t suppose Steve is much concerned with protecting himself in general. If he were, he would be taking advantage of what Bucky taught him. He would be keeping his form up and at least leading with the right foot. 

He says at least because Steve has provided him with a plethora of other problems to pick at, the most prominent one not even being the sound of Steve’s bones damn near breaking when he slams his bare fist into the punching back, but rather the corresponding sight of the blood dripping down from the split skin of his knuckles onto the mat. 

Jesus. Bucky sucks in a sharp breath and tries to keep his metal fist from crunching up the carabiner of keys he has attached to his belt. One of the keys is to the palace gym that he and Steve are currently alone in- not that Steve has noticed his presence yet. If he had, he probably wouldn’t still be trying to tear into himself in a room meant mostly for training, but he seems too far away for that to be of much concern. He’s so stuck up in his head that even the sound of Bucky’s keys jingling against his hip as he takes a step closer escapes his notice, and that’s how Bucky knows it’s bad. 

Sam had mentioned Steve’s mood in his text, had told Bucky that their most recent mission hadn’t gone as planned and that Steve would most likely need some space, something Steve usually hated having when trying to take advantage of their visits. Sam had said it wasn’t good, and Bucky had thought he was prepared for it. He was prepared for not good, for less than okay. 

But he wasn’t prepared for this. 

Steve’s self-destructive habits are nothing new, but their return to this high a level is definitely something resurfaced, likely from even before Bucky was able to be back around. He’s seen Steve take and dole out some pretty hard hits, has given Steve a few of those blows himself, though that’s something he hates to admit. He’s seen the tapes and heard the stories, both from Steve’s other teammates and the man’s own lips.

But this… this. It’s bad, and the sound of Steve's blood splattering between the wet smacks of his fists and sharp intakes of his breaths is so loud and so jarring that almost has to close his eyes and take a step back. He does fall into doing the former, even if only for a second, but he manages to keep his feet down. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s about to walk into, but he does know that it requires him to stand his ground. 

He does so with a stance that’s near perfect when compared to that of the man in front of him, and Bucky isn’t even moving his hands. Only one of his own can bleed, but he can see even from behind that Steve has blood seeping from both. Even if Bucky couldn’t see it, he can fucking smell it, a sharp tang of iron and anger that makes him flare his nostrils and feel like a predator approaching its prey. 

He’s no predator- not here, not anymore- and even when he was small, Steve was never easy prey so much as easy pickings. But still, despite the strength it takes to shake the back like he is, there’s a fragility that Bucky can see as well. A crack in his armor, running right up the smooth line of his back where his shirt is clinging and his spine is sticking out with just how hunched his shoulders are. Terrible form all around. Bucky might not remember everything, but he damn well remembers that he taught him better than that. 

Bucky doesn’t know why his brain fixates on it, but out of everything there is to choose from when it comes to snapping, the thing that finally makes him do it is the sight of Steve’s left foot being the one that’s farther back. It’s not the struggle for breath. Not the broken grunts. Not the frantic pummeling of his fists, or even the pool of blood. It’s both none of and all of those things all at once, Bucky thinks. He can’t be sure while he has so much of his attention focused elsewhere, but there is one thing he is certain of, and that’s that Steve should know better. If Sarah saw him doing something as stupid this, she’d have him by the ear in two seconds flat. 

It’s with her spirit inside him that Bucky tries to act upon the same lines, slamming the door shut behind him to give Steve a fair warning before finally taking a second step forward to approach him from behind. He knows that Steve gets defensive when surprised. 

Even if the door slamming hadn’t been enough to tip Steve off, the sound of Bucky’s sharp voice cutting through the room should get the message across. He pulls out the tone Sarah taught him to use, decades of practice pulling Steve out from fights ringing loudly enough for the guards to probably hear from outside. Bucky doesn’t care if they hear as long as they don’t interrupt, though that seems to be exactly what he’s going to have to do to Steve considering the blonde is still yet to look up. 

“Steve.” The first call of his name doesn’t work, so Bucky tries again, this time inserting some of the eldest Barnes’ bravado in there as well. “ Steve .” Still no luck. Bucky tries the good old fashioned use of Steve’s god given name next, as well as something a little extra tacked on to the end. “Steven Grant, unless you’ve lost your hearing again, I expect you to answer me!”

Unless there’s been some sort of freak accident Sam neglected to mention, Steve hasn’t lost his hearing- but when he still doesn’t move his head, Bucky takes the initiative to yank him away from the back by the ear so hard that it wouldn’t be surprising if he had. 

Bucky’s own hearing is ringing, but he’s pretty sure that’s more from the effort it takes to keep from turning red in the face than anything. He’s angry, but anger alone isn’t going to get Steve to answer, and an answer is what Bucky is currently after. Unfortunately, an answer is also what Steve is very clearly trying to avoid. 

They haven’t even exchanged actual greetings yet. Bucky had woken up today happy to know that Steve would be arriving this afternoon, so content with the awareness that he’d even been cheerful enough to hum when taking care of his usual morning chores. He sure as hell isn’t humming now. No, what comes out of his mouth is most definitely more harsh on the ears than that, even ears that aren’t at the moment still pinched within Bucky’s grasp. 

Steve’s lucky he got the soft side. If Bucky were feeling less generous… He never wants to hurt Steve again, but the Lord knows that sometimes knocking sense into him is something that needs to be done with a firm hand. Figuratively more than literally, but still. Bucky’s always been a big believer in the power of physical touch, even when that touch is through tugging on Steve’s left earlobe like he is right now. He’s not exactly going easy on him, but the embarrassment should be what burns most, hence the flush on the back of his neck Bucky can already see spreading out. 

The exertion that Steve has just finished letting out through his fists definitely contributes to the coloring, but Bucky knows his body well enough to also know that the way he ducks his head has nothing to do with wiping away sweat. He knows he was just caught doing something he isn’t supposed to, something that he knows Bucky is going to scold him about something awful.  

And Bucky will. He’s already promised himself that, but his worry for Steve comes before the frustration, and they won’t be making any progress if he doesn’t get Steve off this goddamn mat and away from his bloodied up bag. 

Bucky digs his thumb in in a final pointed pinch before letting go of Steve’s earlobe, wasting no time in splaying the same hand across the still-reddened back of Steve’s neck. There’s an urge rising up to scruff him there just to go along with the alley cat act, but Bucky resists it and uses the access to such a vulnerable area to steer Steve towards one of the sideline benches of the room instead. 

They still haven’t said hello. They haven’t even really made eye contact, but there'll be time for that in a bit. First Bucky needs to fix this, or at least clean it up best he can. He hates to do it, but he briefly has to remove himself from Steve’s side to start the process of that, leaving the younger man curled up alone on the bench so that he can go grab the gym’s easy-access first aid kid, located in a box next to the doors he’d just slammed shut not five minutes ago. 

He makes a note to himself to tell Ayo what he took out of here later. If she finds out what’s happened before he has the chance to tell her himself, she’ll without a doubt be furious. Someone making a mess of her gym? She has every right to get mad about that. Bucky can’t blame her, but glancing back at Steve, he doesn’t think that anyone could blame him either. Bucky can’t. 

It should be impossible for someone so strong to look so small, but Steve’s sweatpants and too-tight tee don’t make him look nearly as imposing as his newly coined moniker of Nomad does. The outfit is essentially still the same as what he’d worn before, but the star ripped off his chest pairs with the beard and longer hair nicely. If Bucky didn’t know him underneath all that… 

But he does know him. And to be honest, even if he didn’t, right now he thinks that Steve’s fragility is fairly obvious. His fists are no longer moving, but something is still splintered from more than just how hard he was trying to fuck his hands up. It’s as if a fragment of that has broken off and stuck its way under Bucky’s skin. He can’t stop looking at him, even when Steve finally looks up as he approaches with the first aid kit now held in hand. 

He looks almost like a kicked puppy, all wide eyes and downturned lips offset by the obvious attempts to shrug the worry off through clenching his jaw and straightening up in his seat. As he does so, he tucks his hands in his lap like he’s trying to hide the damage where Bucky can’t see. With how his hands have still barely begun to heal, the motion elicits a wince that Bucky picks up on even when Steve tries to hide it from him. 

He’s always been a rotten liar, especially when it comes to telling lies that are about himself. So when he opens his mouth to tell Bucky he doesn’t need help, Bucky doesn’t believe it for one seconds. In fact, he’s so focused on getting his first aid supplies out that the words barely register. 

“I’m okay,” Steve says quietly, knees pressing together so quickly that despite the padding of his sweats, Bucky can almost hear the sound of his bones meeting. It does nothing but remind him of the earlier sound of Steve’s blood spattering on the floor, which makes believing his second statement even harder. “This is nothing. I was already dinged up from my mission anyways.”

With how Sam had already told him that the mission had gone south, Bucky doesn’t have an issue in believing at least part of that statement is true. It’s impossible even for a super soldier to come off an op completely unscathed, and Bucky is well aware of that even if he doesn’t get out as often these days. But Steve’s bruised and bloody knuckles aren’t nothing . Not by a longshot. Even if the injuries aren’t as nasty as some others they’ve faced, it’s the fact that Steve had done it to himself that matters most anyways. 

Bucky has heard some stories about Steve’s formerly nasty habit of doing things like this before. He’s dealt with some of his other nasty habits himself, has been dealing with them since well before the serum and the war. But he’s never had to see this one in person. He’s never had to see Steve choose to hurt like this up close. 

He gets as close as he can right now, ignoring the way that seeing Steve’s skinned knuckles make his heart drop. He’s far past the point of being squeamish about this sort of stuff- how can he not be when he’s used to having to deal with his stump of an arm?- but seeing his sweetheart put himself through hell is… well, it’s a lot. 

He doesn’t mention that to Steve, instead choosing to silently focus on getting out a couple antiseptic wipes and some gauze. There’s a brief moment where he finds himself grateful that Steve hadn’t wrapped his hands up so that they don’t have to deal with the pull of broken skin sticking to dried blood. That relief quickly turns into him feeling sick. Steve couldn’t even take the time to tape his knuckles. That’s how bad this is. 

His hands are still a pride point. They’re what he protects people with. So the fact that he’d chosen to hurt them again… it means something. Bucky just isn’t sure of exactly what yet, but Steve is supposed to stay for the weekend, and Bucky doubts that he’ll manage to keep quiet for an extended period. He’ll spill eventually. Bucky has always had a talent for getting him to talk, even if this time he thinks that he’ll have to be less antagonizing and more accommodating. 

But for now, he still has to shake his head against what Steve has just said. This isn’t nothing. “Humor me,” he murmurs, tearing open one of the wipe packets so he can begin to unfold it for Steve’s wounds to be cleaned. “You know I worry.” He does, Steve living on the run is generally concerning enough without his hands being bloodied up. 

Steve watches him, frown visible even through his still unfamiliar amount of facial hair. “Sorry,” he whispers, voice just as small as the sight of him on the bench had been. 

Bucky sighs and gives Steve’s less injured hand a soft squeeze. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he tells him, because it’s true. He wasn’t trying to guilt trip him. He does wish this hadn’t happened, but he’ll help handle it nonetheless, and while he does so, he tries to make sure that Steve knows he’s glad to see him regardless. He tells him as much. “I missed you, sweetheart. Let me fret.”

For once, Steve doesn’t protest, though he does make a face, a small attempt at pretending he isn’t feeling as low down as he is. “Fret? That’s an awfully fancy word for a farmer, Buck.”

Bucky tries to go along with it, begrudgingly letting things slide, even if only for a small amount of time. “It’s only four letters, pal. And don’t pretend that I was the one who used to fail all our spelling tests.” He looks up and gives Steve a small smile, holding their gazes together for the first time since being together again before glancing back down. “Besides, you know the saying. You can take the man out of the city, but not the city out of the man.”

Steve’s breath hitches slightly at the sting when Bucky finally presses the wipe to where his skin has yet to stitch back together again. “I thought the saying was about a boy in the country.”

“I think it’s still applicable.” Bucky does his best to be careful with his cleaning but still has to make a shushing sound when brushing over an area that mixes the rubbing alcohol with a bead of fresh blood. He tries to distract Steve after, aware that he can stomach physical pain to a much higher amount but not wanting him to have to anyways. “Besides, do I look like a boy anymore to you?”

For all that Steve has changed his body and his hair, Bucky was the one who had gotten both of those changes under his belt first. They both have their own versions of the serum now, and Bucky knows he’s gotten more muscular thanks to the fact he’s now able to live with solid ground under his feet. He’d also had at least half his beard grown in since before he even knew where or what Wakanda was. He’s not the same city boy Steve grew up with, even if their past in Brooklyn has once again begun to saturate his tone. 

It makes Steve go misty eyed when it comes out particularly strong, but he suspects that Steve’s eyes look a little shiny for a different reason right now. He doesn’t comment on it and Steve doesn’t bring it up, settling instead on snuffling onto his palm as quietly as he can. 

“No,” he says, voice nothing above a whisper again. “Guess you’re just a grumpy old man.” He sniffs again and smiles back, watery around the edges. “It’s real good to see you, Buck. I missed you too.”

It’s only been a few weeks since their last visit, but the weight of that statement in the context of where they’re currently at has Bucky slowing down to keep his motions steady as he continues trying to clean up Steve’s hands. He doesn’t know what happened on the mission or even in the half hour that Steve was alone before Bucky joined him in the gym, but what Bucky does know is that he loves him, split knuckles and all. 

After he’s finished with the wipes and has them set to the side, he takes a moment before picking up the gauze, circling his prosthetic around both of Steve’s wrists so that the blonde doesn’t move them when Bucky lifts his flesh hand to cup his face as he leans up on his knees to connect their

mouths in a kiss that acts as an overdue hello. 

It says a couple other things that Bucky hasn’t gotten to articulating out loud just yet. Things like I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay. He doesn’t make those statements even after their lips disconnect, but he doesn’t think he has to. Steve’s breathing comes out so shaky and wet that Bucky is almost under the impression that his thoughts have been read. Or maybe they’re just that in tune. Steve should always know Bucky’s got him, and that goes both for his back and for his hands. 

The kiss doesn’t last long enough for any tears to actually spill over, though Bucky’s own eyes prick at the corners when he slips his hand down from Steve’s newly bristly jawline to pick up a tube that reads Neosporin. The serum gives them both enough of a healing ability and immunity against most diseases to not require any ointment, but literal need isn’t necessarily what Bucky’s first aid efforts are about, at least on his own end. The heart behind it is real, but he knows it’s an act. He’s less worried about Steve getting an infection than he is about him having a panic attack. 

Steve’s coloring is still more pink than anything, but he looks so unsettled that Bucky doesn’t think it’s a far off possibility for him to suddenly become ill. The serum isn’t supposed to let either of them get sick anymore, but there’s another saying that Sarah ingrained in them growing up that Bucky can think of. Mind over matter. With how Bucky just found Steve, he’d say that where his mind is at is what matters the most. 

Playing doctor with a few flimsy wipes and some gauze doesn’t give Bucky enough room to properly gauge Steve’s headspace, but it’ll at least tide things over until they’ve completed the walk back down to his hut. Steve’s healing isn’t that fast, and Bucky isn’t fond of the idea of anyone outside seeing him so vulnerable anyways. He knows what it’s like for people to stare at his hands- or one of them, in any case- and the only attention that Steve needs right now is very clearly Bucky’s own. It’ll be hard enough for him to accept that in the first place, and Steve’s had enough fighting for today. Bucky just wants to take him home. 

He tries to hurry up with the gauze and almost comically sized band-aids he finds to go along with it because of this, so focused on the fact that he’s trying to get them out that he almost doesn’t notice the sound of someone else coming inside. Ayo doesn’t slam the door like he had with Steve once she’s walked across the threshold, but she does clear her throat. It’s only because of his last four months in therapy that Bucky doesn’t use the shock as an excuse to automatically have his hackles raised. His hackles are still up when she approaches them either way, but it’s not because he’s feeling paranoid. It’s mostly because he’s feeling protective. 

He and Ayo aren’t exactly bosom buddies, though they are more than acquaintances. Still, even with that… she may have seen him at some of his lowest points when helping to make sure Shuri had the words out of his head, but he’s not sure he’s comfortable with her seeing Steve so low down just yet. Frankly, he’s not sure Steve even knows she’s in here at all, he’s still so far into his head. The small amounts of snarky conversation they’ve exchanged are good, but it’s clear that Steve’s current standing is far from perfect. 

At least to Bucky it is. Ayo looks less than sympathetic as she comes to stand in front of Steve on the bench, and Bucky finds himself rising to stand between them- not because she’s a threat, but because he wants to talk to her as a friend. 

Normally he wouldn’t interrupt her when she looks so close to speaking, but their current situation calls for their normal pattern of conversation to shift towards something different. His words come out hushed, once again skipping the formality of saying hello. 

“I will make this up to you some other time,” he says at a hushed level, referencing the blood she’s no doubt already seen streaking across the punching bag and the mat. 

Steve has admittedly made a mess and gone through no efforts to clean it up, which is uncharacteristic enough to be concerning on its own. He’ll feel bad about it later, Bucky already knows, but right now he’s already feeling bad enough, hence why Bucky is busy trying to keep his day from getting any more unnecessarily rough. 

“Any favor you want. I promise.” He looks her dead in the face and doesn’t even try to mask the worry he knows he’s wearing on it. Aneka, her partner- she’s a warrior too. Ayo of all people should understand. “I need to get him out of here as soon as I can. Please.” 

He closes his eyes when Ayo’s flick behind him, no doubt taking in the slight of Steve slumped down with his bandaged up hands curled close on his lap. He almost holds his breath, but really he knows that while Ayo is stern and inarguably imposing, she’s also far from heartless. She’ll most likely let them go in the end, even if it will be with Bucky’s offered favor held over his head. With the mess they’ve just made as guests, Bucky guesses he deserves that. 

Whether that’s deserved or not, it is what she agrees with, nodding her head curtly and clacking the blunt end of her ever-present spear on the floor as if to seal the deal with the sound. It’s a sharp enough one for Bucky to hear Steve sigh out shakily at it behind him. His flesh fingers twitch with the urge to go and hold him steady, but he has to see things through with Ayo first. 

She knows by now that he’s a man of his word, which seems to make accepting his offer easy enough. “This doesn’t happen again,” she says, words not unkind, though they do come out clipped off. “Go.” She gestures towards the door with her free hand. “Before I change my mind.”

Bucky knows that won’t be happening- she’s a woman of her word as well- but he takes her advice gladly, giving her a grateful bow of his head before turning and standing Steve up to lean against his side. It’s already evening time, which makes his short sleeves and sweats combo a little less than ideal with how much the shadows of the setting sun tend to cool things off, but the trip down to Bucky’s farm is thankfully a fairly short walk. Steve must not have packed a bag for this trip. 

Bucky looks back out towards the mat and what’s hanging above it. Today it seems that a different kind of bag has had Steve’s focus. 

Though Steve is quiet and a little too docile right now, he’s not incapable of moving on his own. Bucky still chooses to stand unnecessarily close, not removing his hand from Steve’s waist even when it means he has to struggle with filling his flesh palm with all of the first aid trash he’d accumulated when trying to take care of Steve’s hands. They can at least clean something in this gym up. It’s a small gesture, but he does feel a bit better as he tosses it into the trash can set up by the bench. 

Ayo is the last person that Bucky would expect to thank him for it, but she does give him a small smile as they pass by her. Bucky mouths a silent “ thank you” that also acts as a send off. The sight of her spearhead shining under the light of the gym’s fluorescents is the last thing Bucky sees before they’re out in the hall and walking towards the courtyard where the gates will lead down to his farm’s unofficial walking trail. 

He still has his prosthetic pressed to the small of Steve’s back where the sweat soaking into his t-shirt is making the cotton material and metal stick together slightly, both of Steve’s hands and their makeshift bandaged held rigidly in front of his stomach instead of swinging by his sides like most peoples’ would usually be while they walk. They must still be healing then. Bucky sighs, but he’s glad that Steve is at least holding them still. God knows he’s already made them hurt enough. 

Thankfully, don’t don’t pass by many people on their way down to the hut, even once they make their way past the palace gates. Wakandans aren’t nearly as nosy as New Yorkers are, even if their princess does have a habit of being a little too interested in listening in on Bucky and Steve’s occasional Skype calls. She’s sixteen, though, and her curiosity reminds Bucky so much of his own younger sisters that he always lets it go. Makes him feel like he’s honoring their memories, God rest their souls. 

Since Steve is here in person, Bucky doesn’t plan on even picking his tablet up for the entire weekend unless Steve wants to watch a movie or something sometime, though he doesn’t think that’ll be happening tonight. He has his own tentative plans in mind for once they’re inside. 

Actually getting to the door that’ll allow for that to happen ends up taking about twenty minutes, and by the time they’re crossing over the grass to wood threshold, Bucky would guess that it’s about six or seven in the evening. Slightly past the usual time to eat, but not so far off that it feels too late to make at least a small meal. 

Bucky’s glad that he has a few pre-prepared dinners stocked up- nothing fancy, just dry ingredient dishes, small portions of simple stuff. He’ll make up for it tomorrow. Tonight, some bread, fruit, and cheese will have to be enough. It will be. They’ve eaten far worse before, after all. At the very least, Bucky’s bread is homemade, and the fruit he has is gifted from the neighbor’s orchards, cheese fresh from the market and free of mold. All he has to do is slice everything up.

Once they’re both stepped inside, he shuts the door behind them, impossibly quiet compared to how he’d slammed it in order to get Steve’s attention earlier in the gym. He’s still not sure Steve is paying him any attention, but in any case… all of Bucky’s attention is on him. Even if he wasn’t so worried about Steve and his knuckles, in a space as small as his hut, it would be hard for him to focus on anything else. 

For his part, Steve doesn’t seem to be having that problem. He lets Bucky guide him to sit on the bed, not saying a word even when Bucky hands him a set of fresh clothes. His eyes don’t move away from the window, though the view through it isn’t much besides darkened hills being covered by shadow. Living in a valley doesn’t give Bucky as easy of an access to Wakanda’s spectacular sunsets unless he makes an effort to position himself in the right place to watch it. 

They’ll be staying inside today. If Steve is sad about missing the sun going down, there’s always tomorrow. 

His sadness tonight seems to be more of a melancholy over something that Bucky suspects has nothing to do with the sun. He’s still not sure what it is over, but in order to find out, he knows he’ll have to take things slow. That’s exactly what the plan is for. 

Bucky turns back towards his dresser to pull out his own change of clothes. Said clothes are probably closer to pajamas if they want to go with a more accurate descriptor, but the specifics aren’t essential, not as long as Steve finds one of Bucky’s borrowed hoodies and an old pair of his boxers even the slightest bit more comfortable. 

He tries to check in on that by making a small attempt at conversation while they change, though the actual question he asks is about a slightly different subject. “When was the last time you ate?” He’s trying to gauge not only what kind of headspace Steve is in, but also how long he’s been in it. The mission went bad. So what else happened after to make it worse?

Steve is still smoothing the hem of Bucky’s hoodie down when he speaks, voice slightly hoarse from how long it’s been since its last use. “I had some trail mix on the jet for lunch.”

Bucky tries to smile, though his own stomach aches at the knowledge that Steve still has the nasty habit of making himself go without, even when it comes to the small things. “Natasha steal all the M&M’s again?” Even if she didn’t, Bucky promises himself silently to make sure that Steve gets something sweet. 

Predictably, though, the answer is yes, even if it takes Steve a good ten seconds to give it. “By the time I got the bag, I think there were only two left.” The corners of his mouth curve up slightly, too small to be a smile but large enough for Bucky to exhale in relief. “They were both orange, of course.”

Snorting, Bucky shakes his ponytail out before rearranging his let down hair to sit with the ends tucked into his hood. That should help keep it manageable while he makes their meal- and whole he takes care of the other part of his plan. “Of course.” They both know that all M&M’s taste the same, but not all of Natasha’s small quirks need to be explained. Being mysterious is one of her things , after all. 

One of Bucky’s own is taking care of Steve, which is exactly what he sets about doing once he’s finished fiddling with his hair and hoodie. One would think his first step might be towards the makeshift corner he calls his kitchen, but his choice actually takes him to the opposite side of the room to where his medical supplies are stashed in the chest at the end of his bed, the bed that Steve is currently still curled up on top of. 

He still has the bandages from back up at the gym on his hands, but Bucky has a different purpose for some fresh ones in mind. Steve’s healing works fast, but like Bucky said: he’s going to be taking things slow. Not only that- he also thinks that his plan for tonight is going to require him to take control. 

It won’t only be about taking, though. It’s going to be about giving, too. Bucky giving Steve a break, and hopefully, Steve giving Bucky an answer about what’s gotten him so low. Bucky is going to give him what he needs. He always will. That much Steve should already know.

What Steve doesn’t know is what’s about to happen next, though to be fair, Bucky hasn’t exactly bothered to inform him of his plan. Not yet. He puts off explaining what he’s doing until he has what he needs out of the chest and has made his way up to sit beside Steve on the mattress.

Steve blinks and looks down past where his hands are sat on his lap, tired blue eyes settling on what Bucky is holding instead. “What’s that for?” he asks, almost warily. 

Bucky understands why. While a box full of reusable bandages isn’t exactly threatening, it isn’t exactly promising either, though keeping a promise is the reason that Bucky has taken the initiative to pull them out. He doesn’t just happen to have them lying around- he actually uses them fairly often on himself, though not for reasons anywhere near what he has in mind for Steve. 

He may only have one arm made of flesh left, but his left hand being hi-tech vibranium does exactly nothing to keep the blisters on the right palm from popping up, especially with the type of labor he tends to put in in order to work the farm. He hadn’t even had access to the prosthetic for the first few months. It had been hell trying to learn how to go through the proper steps of working the land without it, but it had made things a whole lot easier to handle once he did have it put on. 

That’s in part what the bandages are for. After the first week or so of having to bear the burden of blisters, he’d eventually learned that avoiding them altogether was better than having to suffer through the process of them healing overnight. And besides, he’s familiar with the process of protecting his hands, having been a boxer himself prior to the war. He had more often worn proper gloves than taped up his fingers, but putting the wraps on was nothing he hadn’t done before. 

It’s something that Steve should know to do as well, but Bucky doesn’t stress that point. Not now. Not yet. Instead, he picks up one of the bandages, watching Steve’s expression as he holds the rolled peach-toned length of cloth out. They’re much more sturdy than the disposable ones Steve has on to hold down the gauze, built sturdily enough not to slip when Bucky goes to grip the plow and long enough to cover his entire ankle when he’s trying to cushion his skin in order to break in a new pair of boots while walking around. 

They’re multi-purposed. What Bucky has in mind might put them to use for their most important purpose yet. 

Not that Steve is aware of what that purpose is. Bucky interrupts that question before it can even be asked. He asks a question of his own instead, once that comes out lowly, yet no less loaded. “Do you remember what I told you right before I taught you how to throw a proper punch?”

Steve blinks again, eyes drifting away from the bandage and down towards where their knees are touching on the bed. “I… I think so.” They both know Bucky’s memory is the worse one between them, but this particular memory is one that they should both hold. 

Bucky remembers it particularly well, probably because it was the first time he articulated a sentiment towards Steve’s he’s always felt out loud. “I told you that if you couldn’t be trusted to at least try and keep your hands to yourself, I’d be the one handling them for you,” he says, voice calm as the recollection comes through crystal clear in his head. “Didn’t I?”

Steve is still looking down at their knees, and with his shoes now off, Bucky can see his toes curling up tight. Does he know where this is going? With how confused he still sounds, he can’t. “That sounds about right, I guess.”

It’s not about right. It is right. The only about in this situation is the purpose of this little speech that Bucky has in mind. What he says next ends up being a particularly heavy hitting line, but he can’t find it in him to keep it from coming out. “You think that I should feel able to trust you with ‘em right now?”

For a good thirty seconds, a small gasp is the only thing that comes out of Steve’s mouth. It falls open, his brow pinching together and eyes going almost comically wide as the words cause him to flounder around. If Bucky didn’t know why he was at a loss, he might laugh. But he does know, and the only expression of emotion he feels able to make while still remaining in control is a frown. 

He lets the corners of his lips press together and turn down, his hand still holding the bandage lowering, all while Steve continues his struggle to search for an answer, or even a sound. 

Like Bucky said, Steve’s always been a rotten liar, especially when it comes to telling lies about himself. Bucky asking about his feelings on the matter was intentional, because while Steve might be able to lie to himself, it’ll be near impossible for him to try and pass off that lie to Bucky out loud. Maybe it’s mean to take advantage of that, but Steve knows how much of an asshole Bucky is. He should also know that Bucky will do almost anything to take care of him, and that means he isn’t above a few dirty tricks.

In any case, the trick works. Steve’s answer eventually comes, voice tight and expression hurt. “No.”

Bucky hates the hurt. He really does- with the mission gone bad and what happened with the punching bag, Steve has hurt today enough. But the pain of admittance is what Steve needs, a figurative ripping off the band-aid that will allow the man to finally open up. He moves his free hand forward, trying to soothe the sting with a soft touch. His tone maintains a similar timbre when he continues to talk. 

“Steve,” he whispers, flesh thumb sweeping over the inside of his thigh where the high-up hem of the boxers allows Bucky access to skin that’s pale and soft. “Honey. What’s wrong?”

Steve’s breath audibly hitches at the use of that name. Honey. The endearment almost always saved for the occasions where Bucky is feeling particularly sappy or Steve particularly upset. They both know what sort of instance this is, and the way the name gets Steve’s eyes to close and shoulders to slump means that it’s doing its job. It’s a sweet name, a gentle one. Gentleness is something Bucky had to relearn how to give for too long, but now that he has it again… Steve needs it. Right now, Steve needs a lot. 

It looks like he also needs another nudge or two, something Bucky gives him by moving close enough for their foreheads to lean together after he pushes the box of bandages to the side. “C’mon,” he coaxes, flesh hand squeezing in where it's still set above Steve’s knee. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Steve’s response comes out slightly strangled and a little too rushed. His head is ducked down far enough for Bucky to not be able to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky can’t let that rest. “Hey.” He squeezes Steve’s thigh again, lifting his metal hand up to cup under Steve’s chin, the layer of hair covering it still unfamiliar even to the dull level of feeling provided by the sensors. Steve’s face still fits the same in Bucky’s grip regardless, and he uses it to connect their gazes, Steve’s sorrowful and his own sympathetic. “This isn’t a guilt trip.” He sighs, and gives Steve’s chin a squeeze as well. “But we still need to talk about it.”

“We have to?” Steve mutters. It’s not the usual protest his usual stubbornness would stir up to the surface, but it is petulant enough for Bucky to huff. He’s not back to normal yet, but that’s still his baby- and Bucky’s still his guy, which means that he can’t let such a serious abnormality in Steve’s behavior slide. Not completely. 

He taps Steve’s cheek with his thumb, right above the line of where the stubble of his beard meets smooth skin. “If you don’t wanna talk right now, I get it,” he tells him, because it’s true. It’s been a long day for him even besides what happened in the gym, and Bucky understands completely if he only wants sleep and food. “But if you aren’t gonna talk, you are gonna listen.”

Steve exhales slowly and looks down at his lap again. “That mean you’re gonna try and tell me what to do?”

“I am.” If you want me to goes unspoken, but it doesn’t need to be said verbally. 

They’ve played this game before, were well versed in it long before the serum or the war. It’s a piece in their relationship that their changing bodies and psyches have never seemed fit to outgrow, and that’s for good reason. They both still need this. Now that he’s living on the run, Steve might even need it more. After today… he definitely needs something, and Bucky wants that something to be him taking control. Taking control to take care- it’s one of the most important intimacies Steve and him share. 

Despite the fact that Bucky hasn’t yet told him what the plan is or what the bandages are for, the sheer anticipation of what’s to come makes Steve shudder, and them he’s nodding into Bucky’s grip, the motion careful and slow  “Okay,” he says quietly, once again lowering his shoulders. It’s like his strings have been cut out, or at least let go. Bucky knows without asking that Steve is going to allow him to pick them up. 

“Okay,” he echoes back, straightening up and pressing a chaste kiss to Steve’s forehead along the way. “You need to back out at any time… you just let me know.” 

He trusts that the other man will, just like he expects him to push back against some of his planned efforts, but if Steve really wants them to stop, he only has to say a single word. Bucky had a feeling that he wouldn't want to talk. That’s exactly what the bandages are for, and when he moves both of his hands down to cover Steve’s own, he finally begins to inform Steve of what their agreement and the evening of him not wanting to talk has in store. 

“I woulda thought you learned this lesson back when Miss O’Reily took that ruler to your palm in the seventh grade, but seventy years later here we are,” he says, not specifying on which lesson he means. Steve will figure it out in a second. For now, Bucky allows the mystery to settle between them as he begins to gently rid Steve’s now hopefully healed hands of their band-aids and gauze. “But I guess it’s gonna take another shot to get this to sink in.”

Steve should know Bucky isn’t planning on re-bloodying his knuckles up like their school teacher once had back when she caught Steve arguing with the boy sitting beside him in class- if Bucky remembers right, the kid had stolen the pencil Steve liked to use for shading his sketched- but it admittedly might look a little concerning whatnot with the talk of learning lessons and box of bandages. Bucky isn’t planning on using them like that, but to avoid further concern and confusion, he decides to finally let Steve in on his plan’s little secret. 

“You don’t see how valuable your hands are,” he starts off, voice matter of fact. “So how about you try and see what it’s like not to use them?” He doesn’t give Steve the chance to interrupt, ignoring his shocked expression as he tosses the temporary bandages from the gym aside and picks one of his own reusable rolls up. “You wanna act like your body is expendable, but being stupid is not the same as being strong.” Them, almost as an afterthought- “Hold ‘em out and hold ‘em still.”

Steve’s knuckles are healed enough for the formerly split skin to barely be red around the affected areas, which means Bucky has no reason for hesitation before taking one of Steve’s hands in his own and positioning it palm up so that he can begin wrapping the bandage on. Steve is still so taken aback that his muscles are loose enough for Bucky not to have to struggle in the same way he would if the younger man were tensed up. 

He starts the wraps up the same way he would before a boxing match, placing the end of the bandage against the thin layer of skin connecting Steve’s fingers to his thumb before wrapping it around the back of his hand at a downward angle that allows him to follow the fabric in a loop back around his wrist and then up above so that it can go over the back of his knuckles once again in an X pattern that gains more padding with every layer the length of bandage adds as Bucky rolls it on. It’s easy enough for the self-adhering material to hold the wrap together once he’s reached the other end, and once that’s completed, he moves on with a second bandage for the other hand.

Steve watches him work with wide eyes, and by the time Bucky has finished, his words come out just as clumsily as the bulk of bandages has no doubt left him. “Wha… what?” he stutters, trying to curl his fingers in and failing thanks to the cushion that now surrounds them. 

Bucky may have gone a little over the top with using bandages that he knew were too long, but how else was he supposed to hammer the point in? Steve isn’t going to be using his hands this weekend. Not until he talks. Bucky won’t be unwinding those bandages until Steve has unwound himself. 

He tells him as much. “I told you, pal. I’m not taking those off until the weekend’s over. Or you talk.” He circles Steve’s wrists with his left hand and pats over them with his right. “Whichever comes first.”

Now that Steve isn’t as confused, he looks to be getting worked up. “How am I supposed to eat? Go to the bathroom?” His ears have turned red just saying that. “How am I supposed to do anything?”

Bucky’s answer is once again a matter of fact. “You ask for help.” After all, breaking Steve’s horrible habit of never asking for that is what this is really about. “Besides, all of that’s nothing we haven’t been through before.”

Steve makes an agitated sound in his throat and turns an even deeper shade of red, but they both know that’s true too thanks to all of Steve’s former health issues- including his rheumatism, which used to make his joints swell up so bad that Steve was left unable to do even small things, like bend to tie his shoes or finish a simple sketch. He had always hated that, but while what they’re doing now is similar in effect, it isn’t anywhere close to being the same. 

Bucky does feel a bit bad, or at least sympathetic. He more than anyone knows up close what it’s like not to be able to use his hand- in this case hands- but he also knows that this is what Steve needs for the message to sink in. Bucky can't stand to see the love of his life hurting, especially when it’s from him hurting himself. Finding him up in that gym earlier, taking out all of his anger in a punishment meant to make him hurt like hell… Bucky suspects that half of why he did that was to let out not only his frustrations, but also a silent cry for help. 

Bucky heard it, loud and clear. This is just part of his response. Steve needs to heal more than just his knuckles, and while Bucky playing this stupid game can’t fix everything, maybe it can help Steve be open enough to at least admit what’s bothering him. 

But in the meantime, he’d rather keep him from blowing a gasket. So before Steve can get too worked up, Bucky lifts his wrapped hands up by his gathered wrists and takes a moment to press  both sides of his poked out fingertips with a kiss. Steve’s expression is still pinched after, but he looks a little less close to a meltdown, which Bucky takes as a win. He’d rather avoid another one of those until after they at least get some dinner.  

The bread, cheese, and fruit are still waiting to be sliced in Bucky’s kitchen corner, so after another quick kiss placed on Steve's lips, Bucky stands and heads over there while Steve remains seated on the bed. When Bucky glances back up at him after grabbing the nearest knife reserved for culinary purposes, he sees that Steve has brought his feet up from the floor so that he can fully curl up.

He smiles to himself. While he’s less than happy about why Steve has ended up with his hands wrapped, he has to admit that something about the sight of them is cute. It reminds Bucky of the winters back in Brooklyn where Steve used to wear mittens out every day just to keep his fingers from turning blue. Poor circulation on top of the rheumatism was a real pain in the ass to live with, but Steve was a real trooper about it. He still is, even now that the serum has alleviated his physical problems. 

Maybe that’s what highlights the mental ones so much. Steve’s always had his fair share of bad coping mechanisms and habits, but now that Bucky is finally able to slow down and take a look at his own, he’s beginning to pay Steve’s more notice. It’s a shitty trade for them to make, Steve living on the run now that Bucky has finally caught a break. Bucky can only hope that they’ll be in a place where they’re both allowed to take a break one day. If he could ask Steve to stay… he would. But he can’t ask that of him just yet, not when Steve is so clearly already giving so much of himself away. 

Steve has been a punching bag in a lot of ways for a lot of people, both before the serum and after. It sort of makes sense that he’d want his own to hit. Bucky just doesn’t understand why he feels the need to let himself bleed while using it, but hopefully they’ll be able to talk about that later. Tonight he’ll allow Steve to stay clammed up as long as he stays wrapped up too, both in his bandages and Bucky’s arms. 

He had agreed to let Bucky tell him what to do, and with his hands currently incapacitated, that includes allowing Bucky to handle both of their food. It’s not like Bucky hasn’t hand fed him before, but usually that’s something that happens in situations that are much more lighthearted. This is a little more serious. When Bucky feeds him, it’ll also act as a taste of what’s to come. A sample of what lesson there is to be learned. 

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to have everything sliced up. When he heads back towards the bed, it's with a plate of finger foods held in one hand and a large mug of tea held in the other. He sets them both on the nightstand briefly so that he can climb up and get situated, patting the spot on his left in a signal for Steve to slip beside him under the covers. Steve does, leaning contentedly up to his side and snuggling up under the arm Bucky places around his shoulders, seemingly unphased by the fact that it’s his prosthetic and not the one made of flesh. 

Bucky’s still gladder than he can ever articulate that Steve doesn’t mind the metal. It’s taken a lot on his own end to get used to it, but Steve being good about it has helped a lot. That’s Steve Rogers in a nutshell. Always good. Always helpful. It’s part of why Bucky enjoys helping him so much too- the other part is best explained by what he says to Steve next, murmuring into his hair while he reaches his left hand out to grab their plate of piled up food. “I love you, sweetheart.” 

Steve sighs and kisses Bucky’s neck where he has his face pressed, beard tickling and tangling with Bucky’s own when he speaks. “I love you back.”

For a minute, Bucky forgets about everything besides that. He isn’t thinking about the gym or what they’re going to do tomorrow. He isn’t thinking about owing Ayo a favor or even thinking about Steve’s hands. He’s only thinking of how glad he is that Steve is home. All that matters is that Steve is here and Bucky loves him. He loves him even when he’s gone. Steve isn’t gone now, but in another few seconds, the moment is. The feelings it’s brought on remain, but then Steve’s stomach growls loudly enough for Bucky to laugh and pat a hand over it before moving on. 

“Someone’s hungry,” he says. “How about we fix that?”

Steve makes a face even as Bucky is lifting up a piece of cheese towards it. “You’re really gonna feed me like this the whole weekend?” He sounds skeptical, but accepts the chunk he’s offered either way, chewing gratefully while Bucky hums. 

“Or until you decide to talk,” he responds, probably a touch too brightly with how Steve’s unimpressed look returns once he’s swallowed. Bucky knows his own look is most likely coming off fond. “Would you rather me let you starve?” He flicks Steve in the nose once he’s done with his own first bite. “How about I hear a thank you, Buck, huh?” Steve huffs, then groans and paws clumsily at Bucky’s pinching fingers when he flicks him again. 

It’s a fruitless effort with how the bandages leave him with close to no finesse, but he’s stubborn enough to try regardless. He’s a punk, even all bundled up like this. 

He winds up being punk enough to push back for a bit before giving in. “Fine!” he says crabbily, smacking the bundle of his left hand against the area of blanket covering Bucky’s thigh. “ Thank you, Bucky.” Bucky raises his eyebrows and hovers the hand holding their next intended to be shared chunk of bread. He knows Steve well enough to be aware he isn’t done just yet. Sure enough- “Thank you for holding me hostage in your hut. Thank you for tying my hands up. Thank you for being a dick-“

“You forgot to thank me for the hoodie,” Bucky supplies helpfully. He takes the entire crust of bread in his own mouth. “And dinner. And the first aid.” He tugs on a piece of Steve’s hair with his metal hand still tucked behind his back, the longer length rendering blonde strands more easily accessible. “And don’t pretend that your hands being wrapped up would be a problem if you really needed to escape.” If he really wanted to, which he doesn’t. He just feels the need to posture sometimes when they do this, like Bucky isn’t the only one that ever has or ever will see him this way. 

Really they both know that Steve’s round-the-clock ability to take the bandages off is half the fun of this game, or at least what gives the meaning of it most of its weight. It's a trust exercise for them, one that requires Steve to place his trust quite literally into Bucky’s hands, this time not only for a single night or for a scene, but for the entire weekend. Or, as Bucky’s just said, at least until he talks. It’s entirely up to Steve how long he has to suffer with his hands wrapped up. 

It’s not like he’s truly suffering either, not in any real way. Bucky has practically set himself up to wait on the man hand and foot, no pun intended. Steve, as usual, is just terrible at letting himself be taken care of- or as he insists on calling it, coddled. Another lesson he still hasn’t learned even after seventy something years of Bucky’s best teaching efforts, but Bucky hasn’t given up on the hope that an old dog can learn new tricks just yet. He still has plenty of tricks of his own stored up his sleeve, but he isn’t planning on pulling any more out other than the one he needs. 

Right now, what Steve needs is solid ground. A place to stand where he can catch his breath, even if it is only to let it out with a good cry once he and Bucky finally take the time to talk about how and why he ended up like that up in the gym. Bucky can already see something building up that he knows will inevitably break. He’s just not sure what way it’ll end up happening. Steve only operates at two different speeds, and his meltdowns are pretty much the same. They either come suddenly, like that half hour spent alone with the punching bag, or so gradually that Bucky has to wonder sometimes if it’ll even happen at all. 

His plan is prepared for either option. No matter what way Steve decides to crash, Bucky will be waiting to catch him at the bottom. When Steve breaks, Bucky will be there to do the same with his fall. They don’t have the best track record with falling, but that isn’t either of their faults. Bucky knows that. Steve sometimes forgets, but that’s just another lesson Bucky hasn’t given up on teaching him just yet. 

Despite their continued trade of kisses and snarky conversation between hand fed bites, Steve doesn’t look to be in a learning mood tonight. At one point, an annoying enough line from Bucky does have him nipping at his flesh fingertips like some sort of overgrown puppy with an attitude in need of adjustment, but even that retaliation is something Bucky can tell is half hearted. The exhaustion of today’s mission seems to have caught up with him now that he’s finally laying down, and it only takes as long as it does for them to finish dinner for him to be out like a light. 

The wraps apparently don’t hinder Steve’s ability to sleep, because even with the bulk of them curled up under the blankets, he’s snoring loud enough for Bucky to hear even from the kitchen corner within minutes. Bucky smiles as he sets down their dirty dishes in the wash bin. He’ll have to take it out sooner than later before the remnants of their dinner have time to attract too many ants, but for now, he leaves it. There’ll be plenty of time in the morning for chores. 

He returns to the bed and takes a long look at Steve’s sleep slackened face before dimming the oil lamp on the nightstand. He looks so peaceful like this. Young in a way he often strays away from when awake, even with the addition of his facial hair and the fine lines by his eyes that never seem to fade now that he’s always so exhausted from living on the run. As bad as this visit started off, it’s good that he’s taking a break. 

Bucky tries to move as slowly as he can when sliding back under the blankets, but he indulges in the risk of waking Steve for a second in order to brush his forehead in a kiss. He’d fallen asleep before they could exchange any real goodnights, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He makes sure to send him off to sleep with one coming from his own end regardless. 

“Night, sweetheart,” he whispers, allowing his own eyes to fall shut once he’s settled back against the pillows with Steve sighing out and shifting subconsciously closer to his chest. “Love you.”

Dead to the world, Steve doesn’t respond. That’s okay. There’ll be plenty of time for them to talk tomorrow. 

 

-

 

Washing the dishes winds up being the first thing Bucky takes care of the following morning, which might be counterproductive when he realizes after the fact that they haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Ah, well. He’ll just have to do it again later, maybe once they’ve eaten lunch too. Dishes aren’t his most difficult chore, and Steve isn’t even awake yet anyways. 

In all honesty, Bucky doesn’t want him to be. This weekend is supposed to be one where he can relax, even if his hands are wrapped. He deserves to sleep in- and God knows Bucky’s chores have him waking up at the ass crack of dawn almost every day. He’s used to it, and frankly, last night has him feeling a little restless. Helping his neighbor herd both of their respective groups of goats down to the pasture seems as good a way as any to let some of that out. If Antire notices anything off about him, he doesn’t say. 

Bucky’s grateful for that. He’s also grateful that this isn’t a morning where he has to use the plow, because the thought of getting the box of bandages back out somehow doesn’t sit peacefully in Bucky’s brain. They’re serving a different purpose today. In any case, Bucky’s palm has a fair amount of callousness built up by now. It’s possible that blisters are something he could now not have to worry about, but still. He likes to play it safe. His right hand is the only one of his own he has left, so he might as well do what he can to take care of it. 

That’s a sentiment that Steve needs to apply to himself, he thinks wryly as he makes his way back up from the pasture to make sure that his recently fixed fence post he’d noticed wobbling the other day is still secure. He’d rather not have to deal with any of the little hooved brats he’s been entrusted with escaping later tonight, but such is the life of even an amateur farmer. Bucky’s still learning the trade. He’s just lucky that his neighbors are nice enough to give him advice. 

A lot of his life here is nice. The people are good. The weather is peaceful. It’s peaceful, even if Bucky is aware that he’s staying here on a borrowed amount of time. T’Challa and the rest of Wakanda had been kind enough to welcome him here after their initial impression of him had gone so wrong, and while Bucky is grateful for it, he knows that this isn’t where he belongs. He’ll always be a guest here, but that’s okay. He’s still being allowed the chance to find his calm. And to tell the truth, his hut doesn’t often feel like a home when Steve is gone. 

Home for them is a person before it’s a place, but right now, Steve can’t seem to bear slowing down, and Bucky can’t really risk leaving the country to pick up a chase. It’s a bit of a conundrum, but they’ll figure out a way to deal with it. They always do eventually. Steve just has to talk first. 

Bucky sighs and bends to mop his non-cutoff shirt sleeve over his face. He wasn’t lying when he said Wakanda has near perfect weather, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get hot as hell on some days. He also wasn’t lying when he told Steve he’s still a city slicker at heart, but even with all his frustrations, he knows he puts his heart into this farm. It’s the first time since the 1940s that he’s been able to willingly put in work that he believes in and wants to do. He can deal with some sweat and blisters as long as it allows him to feel as if he’s finally doing his part. 

The therapist the palace supplied him with has told him that he sees this as a way to atone. Apparently, Bucky carries most of his guilt in his hands, because even with the new prosthetic on, he feels like they’re both stained with blood. Those last words aren’t Dr. Malachi’s. They’re his own. He’s more aware of his guilt than anyone, after all, and although he knows he doesn’t have to, although he knows HYDRA was the one who put him in a position of fault… he wants to atone. He likes using his hands to work the land and earn his keep. He likes using them for what good he can. 

That includes using them to take care of Steve. 

Because the younger man had still been asleep when Bucky left the hut, he unfortunately hadn’t been able to gauge what kind of headspace Steve will likely be in when he does wake up. After almost ten hours of sleep, it should be different than the one from last night. How different is what Bucky doesn’t know. He knows Steve better than anyone, but that doesn’t keep him from still being an occasionally unpredictable punk. Bucky will just have to try and read him as carefully as he can once he gets back inside. He’s always been better with subtleties than Steve. 

The only thing Bucky has left to do is restock his pens so that when Antire brings the goats back up from the pasture, he won’t have to worry about hauling any hay or buckets of fresh water. It’s a job that requires a little more heavy lifting than his other chores, but it’s easy enough for him to lift up the ends of the wagon where his bales are stacked and pull it over, though it does make him feel a bit like a horse. Not that he actually has one of those- most of the ridden animals around here are actually rhinos, as hard as that still is to wrap his mind around. He’s seeing a lot of hard to believe things these days. 

Though his hair is up in a bun, he still winds up shaking bits of grass out of his bangs a few minutes later when the water and feed troughs are full. He needs a shower, but he’s not sure he can squeeze one in before breakfast. Maybe he and Steve can take one together? Or even go to the waterfall located at the end of the forest path. Of course, taking a shower or a bath would require Bucky to unwrap his hands, but-

As soon as he opens up the door to the hut, both Bucky’s brainstorming and his boots come to a halt. He’s not thinking about how good it would feel to wash up anymore. How can he, when Steve’s face is already so wet? Only it’s not with water. It’s with tears. 

Bucky sucks in a breath. So much for a careful read. Steve’s pages are all spread so thin that Bucky is afraid he might tear something apart no matter how slowly he steps in. Like with yesterday in the gym, he’s not even sure Steve knows he’s there. 

To remedy that, he clears his throat as gently as he can. Steve’s neck still snaps up at the notice, so abruptly Bucky is surprised that he didn’t hear something pop. He does hear Steve’s breathing, though, so shaky and shallow that he’s concerned the man is about to need an inhaler for the first time in a century. Bucky’s memory might not be the best, but he still remembers exactly how Steve sounds right before he’s about to choke. 

The front part of Bucky’s brain is aware that Steve doesn’t have asthma anymore, but the back part doesn’t care. It pushes him to abandon his place by the door in favor of getting closer, for once not even bothering to take his boots off before his feet meet the floor. He can wipe any tracks away after he handles wiping up the tears currently streaking their own tracks down Steve’s face. There are enough there to suggest that he’s been like this for a while, and Bucky is at a complete loss for what brought this on until he sees what Steve is clutching in his lap. 

His sketchbook, with its cover flipped wide open to the page with the pen clipped on top that marks whatever he’d been working on last. Bucky can see the drawing isn’t one that’s fresh- Steve doesn’t tend to take this particular book on missions. He likes leaving it behind in Bucky’s hut, sort of as a way to assert that this is his space too. They both like that. But this morning, something about the sight of it clearly has gotten Steve upset. 

Is it something to do with his hands being wrapped? That’s the only assumption Bucky can see fit to make. Heart sinking, he approaches to sit slowly on the edge of the bed. Maybe pushing Steve into this sort of thing so quickly after he was upset had been a mistake. It had seemed like a good compromise when Steve didn’t want to talk yesterday, but now… 

“Hey,” he says softly, hip pressing against Steve’s bent up thigh where the man is sat up and hunched over like he’s wanting to put his head in his hands. But he can’t, not with the bandages. Bucky’s heart drops again. He has to fix this. “Stevie, if you need me to take those off, I can.” He reaches his flesh hand over just as slowly as he had sat down on the bed. “All you have to do is tell me. I won’t be mad.”

Steve always has the final say so even when it comes to Bucky taking control. Especially when it comes to Bucky taking control. These little games and this exchange are all about trust at their core. It’s why he told Steve if he needed the back out, he could let Bucky know. So why hasn’t he?

Evidently, he hasn’t told Bucky that because it isn’t what wants. When Bucky goes to untuck the end of one of the wraps, he shakes his head and tells him as much. “That isn’t what’s wrong,” he whispers. “That’s not- It’s not-“ His words are getting jumbled up and lost into whatever is wrong, but as much as Bucky wants to try and help, he isn’t the one that can find them. 

So he waits, hand dropped over one of Steve’s own to squeeze at where the bandage has loosened slightly during his sleep in silent support. He’ll give Steve whatever he needs, and if what he needs is time, Bucky will do his best to put the whole damn world on pause. 

What Steve ends up needing is about three more minutes to catch his breath and calm his brain, because when he speaks next, it comes out much more collected. Still quiet, but no longer so choked up. “I don’t mind keeping them on,” he mutters, giving Bucky doe eyes when the claim results in a skeptical look. “Really. I don’t. Honest.” 

There’s a certainty of truth in his tone that eases the tightness in Bucky’s chest up. Steve is still upset, but at least it isn’t the bandages fault. That leaves another question up in the air, though. 

“Then what is the matter, honey?” Bucky asks. He’s not trying to interrupt, but the part the sketchbook plays in all this still has him feeling a bit lost. “What’s got you so torn up?”

Steve has his shoulders so tense that the pooled up fabric of Bucky’s borrowed hoodie around his neck looks as if it could swallow him up. Steve himself looks like he’d be glad to let it, but he manages to get an answer out regardless of his reluctance when Bucky squeezes his hand again. “I don’t deserve any of this, Buck.”

At that, Bucky blinks. Upon first hearing the statement, he agrees. Steve doesn’t deserve a lot of what he’s been put through. The Valkyrie, the helicarrier, Siberia, almost everything bad that’s happened since losing each other in the war. But once he gets a look at Steve’s face, Bucky begins to realize that what he’s thinking isn’t anything close to what Steve intended for that confession to mean.

He’s not talking about the bad stuff. He’s talking about the good. And apparently, he isn’t done talking about it just yet. 

“You’re willing to do so much for me,” he goes on miserably, cloudy expression completely the opposite of its usual sunshine that’s coming down outside. “You're willing to do everything for me and I’m so selfish I can’t even do the one thing that you want.” Talk, he must mean. Bucky almost points out that he’s doing exactly that now, but he doesn’t want to risk him clamming up again if he’s cut off. Steve sniffs, and it sounds just as sad echoing around the hut as it had yesterday in the larger space of the gym. “I don’t deserve any of this,” he repeats, painful certainty in the second repetition coming through even clearer. “I don’t deserve you, but I don’t think I deserve to take these off either.”

Jesus Christ. Bucky has to close his eyes and count up to ten before he can even begin thinking of what he needs to say to shoot that sentiment down. There’s so much wrong with it that he really can’t believe it came out of Steve’s mouth in the first place. 

He’s used to Steve’s feelings of inadequacy. He feels some of that on his own end too- but Bucky’s problems aside, while Steve may not have asthma anymore, he's always had self worth and anxiety issues. The serum fixed his body without changing anything in his brain. Its effects helped heal the physical parts of him that were wounded in the war, but not even vita rays can completely shield someone from the fallout of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and all the lovely quirks that come with it. 

When Bucky asks his next question, he’s almost afraid of the answer. “Then what do you think you deserve?” Steve’s expression crumples further and Bucky has to keep his own from breaking when he presses on to ask something else. “What’s making you be so hard on yourself?”

In all honesty, Steve has always been hard on himself, but what happened yesterday is taking it to an entirely new level of bad that Bucky stupidly hadn’t expected to happen with him back around. He knows that his presence doesn’t automatically make things fine and dandy for them both, but he thought it helped enough. Then again, Steve doesn’t often get to share his presence with how he's living on the run. 

He’s sitting stock still now, shoulders tensed up even more. If he were standing, Bucky suspects his knees would lock so badly he might fall over, and despite his seated position, he still sounds like he’s had something knocked out of him when he finally answers. “Sometimes I think that hurting is the only thing that makes me feel human anymore.” His eyes are shining, though his tone is dull, and Bucky finds his wanting to welling right up to match them in no time. 

Knowing Steve had chosen to let himself hurt and hearing that he actively wanted to are two completely different things. Being told that it’s what he thinks he deserves is heartbreaking. 

Bucky thinks back to his session with Dr. Malachi where he admitted to carrying his guilt in his hands. With what Steve has been doing to his, he has to wonder if Steve holds his pain in the same place, if that’s why he’s been trying to see how far he can push himself in order to bleed and break. He did that even before the serum just to see how much he could take- pain has always been a part of Steve’s grief, but it's never been about inflicting it on anyone else so much as but himself. Bucky feels like a fool for not immediately being able to see what Steve tells him next, face twisted where Bucky hugs both arms around him to hide in the scruff covering his neck.

“I’m supposed to save people,” he says thickly, clearly close to beginning to cry again. “I’m supposed to protect them.” He exhales so shakily that it’s practically a sob. “What are my hands good for if I can’t do that? What am I here for if I can’t do that?”

“Baby, not every mission goes right,” Bucky whispers, rocking them back and forth as he holds him tight, Steve’s wrapped hands curled up between them and tucked close to his chest. “You are still human. You have limits.” If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be alive, he wants to say, but he’s terrified that that might be the point. 

He’s heard the stories about him being reckless after the ice, half because he couldn’t believe he was alive and half because he was afraid that he’d never be able to die. It was bad then. He didn’t have much to stick around for. Bucky doesn’t think that what’s happening now is worse, but that makes it no less concerning when Steve has just basically admitted to feeling like if he can't die, at least he can hurt like he thinks he deserves. It’s like he’s under the impression that helping and hurting are his only two options, like healing isn’t on the table for him at all. 

Bucky has to tell him otherwise. He has to make him see- this is no longer about teaching Steve a lesson. It’s about bringing him back into the light. He has to fight to keep his voice calm while he does so, hugging Steve even closer so that he’ll remain surrounded while Bucky tries to drum the message into him until it’s ingrained. He won’t be forgetting what Bucky is about to tell him, not even if Bucky has to keep repeating it until the grave. 

“You are here because I’m not about to let you go somewhere that I can’t follow,” he starts off lowly. “You’re here and you’re going to stay because you have so many people that love you for so much more than being a hero. You hear me?” He tugs on Steve’s hair then, not hard enough to hurt, but suddenly enough to make sure he’s paying attention. This is important stuff. “You don’t have to hurt to be human, and I can’t keep you from hurting in general, but I can ask you to at least not do it to yourself.” 

He quiets for a moment, the hut filled for a split second with nothing other than the sound of the both of them drawing in shaky breaths. Then, once he feels able, Bucky goes on again. 

“I know you’re always trying to carry the whole damn world on your shoulders,” he eventually says. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t ever stop fighting when it comes to your hands.” He lets slowly Steve’s shoulders go only so that he can lay both of his on top of them, cotton bandages pressing against the contrasting sides that make Bucky up, both metal and flesh. “You aren’t Atlas. You’re Steve Rogers.” He leans their foreheads together so that what he says next is whispered into the inches between them as solemn as a vow. “And Steve Rogers’ hands are good for plenty even when they aren’t holding a shield.”

Steve’s hands are a pride point of his still. Bucky’s proud of them too, but that isn’t just because of their fighting skills. He loves how they always feel just right in his own when they’re walking with their fingers linked. He loves how concentrated on them Steve gets when he paints. He loves how they look stretched above Steve’s head or against Bucky’s own skin when Bucky is taking him apart in the bed they’re currently both in. Bucky loves Steve’s hands for a lot of reasons, but mostly he just loves them because they’re his. 

Bucky understands what it's like to hold guilt in your hands better than anyone, but while he handles the feeling by working the land, Steve has tried to handle it by bloodying them up on a bag. It isn’t helpful, nor is it healthy. Steve has to know that, because right now, it looks like half his guilt is in his eyes. 

Pulling back, Bucky moves to press a kiss to each lid in order to spur Steve into letting them fall shut. It works. Bucky follows up the gesture with a whisper that he can do doubt feel fanning against his lashes. “You got it?” Then, even gentler, “Even if you don’t, I’ve still got you.”

It takes a two minute long pause and a long exhale to steady his breath, but eventually Steve brings up his palms and tries to cup them around Bucky’s face despite the bandages. Bucky mirrors the motion with his own so that they’re sitting beside each other on the bed, still face to face, finding steadiness in each other with their hands. 

Steve’s beard scratches against Bucky’s flesh fingertips when he speaks, jaw moving before the words even get out as he swallows down a nervous breath. “I’ve got it,” he answers quietly. He brings his hands closer together like he’s trying to flatten out the layers of fabric between his palms and Bucky’s cheeks. “Buck?”

“What, honey?”

“I love you.” Steve swallows again and then exhales shakily after a soft sniff brought on by the tears he’s trying to keep. “Love you big.”

Bucky laughs, not because anything is particularly funny, but because he’s relieved. The problem isn’t completely solved. It can’t be so soon, not after one conversation, but at least he now knows what the problem is . At least Steve knows he wants to help, and with how vulnerable Steve sounds, Bucky even thinks his help is going to be allowed. 

“I love you back,” he murmurs, filling out the other end of their near century old pact. “And I you bigger, Steven Grant.”

Steve sniffs again, but he’s smiling too when Bucky pulls away to get a look at his expression. It’s watery around the edges, but it still makes Bucky feel as warm as the sunshine outside. “Is that a fact, James Buchanan?”

“It’s a promise.” He kisses Steve’s forehead. “We can even make it a pinky swear if you want me to unwrap your hands.” That was their deal, after all, and now that Steve has talked, Bucky guesses that technically now is the time to take them off. 

Despite that, Steve shakes his head. “You don’t gotta,” he says, lowering his eyes when Bucky looks at him, slightly surprised. He thought Steve would jump at the opportunity as soon as he heard- unless this still has something to do with him feeling like the freedom is undeserved? Bucky opens his mouth to make sure, but Steve must see that coming, because he shakes his head a second time. “I, uh.” He looks slightly shy. Bucky doesn’t have to wait long wondering why. “I think your lesson still needs a little while to sink in.” He’s staring down at his lap now where his sleep attire has left him without pants. “If that’s okay.”

Bucky smiles and claps his right hand over the back of Steve’s neck. “It’s fine.” More than fine, really. Steve knows how much fun Bucky has being bossy. Still, to be his usual asshole self about it, he still has to add on- “As long as you stop trying to bite me.”

Steve has the decency to look at least slightly embarrassed with how his cheeks turn red, but that doesn’t keep him from sounding like a smartmouth when he fires back. “Well, maybe if you’d feed me a little more-“

“Or maybe if you stopped being a brat-“

“Your fault.” Steve smiles and Bucky realizes it’s the first real one he’s gotten out of bim since his arrival. “You’re the one spoiling me. You got a problem, take it up with yourself.”

Bucky sighs and rolls his eyes as he shoves off the bed in an attempt to feign being annoyed. Now that Steve’s inevitable breakdown has happened, they’re both going to be getting hungry before too long. “You don’t watch it and maybe I’ll start keeping my hands and my food to myself.”

Steve huffs and flips his hood up over his head with a side eye to where Bucky is standing in the kitchen corner. It’s a move that might make him look more menacing were it not for the mitten-like appearance of his hands. Not to mention the fact that Bucky knows he’s nothing but a big baby at heart, no matter his size or how hard he can throw a punch. “You wouldn’t let me starve.”

Bucky tips his head. “I wouldn’t,” he confirms. “But I could think of some other stuff to hold back on, I bet.” The threat works as intended, Steve looking at him with slightly widened eyes that Bucky has to laugh at. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, pal. I’m kidding.” Squatting down to search for a pan, he winks. “Maybe I’ll prove that to you after breakfast.” With Steve less upset, maybe their little game can lead to some real fun. 

Apparently now content to curl back up under the covers, Steve pushes his sketchbook towards the end of the bed before flopping back down, one wrapped up hand pillowed under his head and the other stretched out across Bucky’s empty side of the sheets like he’s waiting for Bucky to come back. “You might have to do most of the work,” he says, flexing his fingertips. “Since I can’t use my hands much like this.”

Braced on his thigh, Bucky’s own flesh fingertips twitch. He knows Steve is just joking, but it’s true too. Still, even with that- “Don’t worry.” Bucky runs his hand not clutching the pan through his hair once he straightens up. “I’ll take care of it.” He doesn’t say it out loud, but a second statement echoes. I’ll take care of you. 

Whenever Steve needs a helping hand, Bucky will give him one. Or if the situation calls for it like this does, he’ll give him two. They’ll walk through the hard times and soft hand in hand, just like all lovers do. 

Steve snorts. “Thanks, Buck.” He sounds sarcastic, but his expression is fond

Bucky knows the one he’s wearing is too. “Nothing to it, babydoll. Now how about I get us some grub? You think scrambled eggs can be a finger food?”

“I think I’m gonna scramble you if you don’t stop being an ass.”

“You can try, but I think you’re a little too tied up for that, aren’t you?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Despite his teasing about the eggs, it doesn’t actually end up taking Bucky that long to finish frying them up, though feeding them to Steve off the end of their shared fork does take up a little more time than usual. It’s not like that’s a concern, though, not today. They have the entire weekend to themselves laid out in front of them, and if Bucky wants to use the control he’s been entrusted with to draw out their breakfast longer than its usual fifteen minutes, then so be it. They both need to work on eating slower anyways. Getting used to not having to go hungry is still something that sometimes leaves them both amazed. 

Bucky makes sure to include some fruit in this morning’s meal as well. Not even seasoning can keep a measly couple of eggs from being an overall bland breakfast, but the mango chunks and orange juice he serves them with wind up making them taste much better than they would have on their own. It also doesn’t hurt that Steve- even with all his earlier sassing- refrains from biting Bucky’s fingertips in favor of licking the juice from the fruit off them shyly. It’s not like Bucky could tease him for it, though. After all, he’s the one that isn’t pulling his hand away. 

Steve’s own hands are tucked neatly in his lap, legs stretched out long in front of them where Bucky once again has them set up to eat on the bed. Luckily, eggs and fruit don’t exactly shed many crumbs, but Steve laying his head on Bucky’s shoulders and letting himself be fed would make it worth it even if they did. Steve isn't exactly being docile, at least not in any way that’s uncharacteristic- he might not be biting at Bucky physically, but biting on the verbal ground turns out to be fair game, as Bucky finds within the first few minutes. 

Even when his head is on Bucky’s shoulder and mind clearly floating someones high up and hazy, he’s got enough fire left in him to bite back at Bucky’s (admittedly awful) lines let out to tease him. Bucky calls him Mittens at one point and makes a dumb joke about getting him declawed. Steve doesn’t take kindly to it, seeing as his first response is to lift up one of his bundled hands that brought on the teasing in the first place to give Bucky’s chest a smack. 

“You wanna call me kitten, just do it,” he snips, turning his head away from the forkful of egg Bucky holds up to his lips. “If you’re gonna be one of those dirty old men, no sense in having any shame in it.” 

Bucky snorts and swallows the bite for himself. “No one said the word kitten but you, pal,” he says drily, rolling his eyes then smiling at the overexaggerated face Steve pulls at the pet name. It’s good to see that he’s feeling at least a bit better. “But if you’re that upset about me being dirty, I guess I could ditch you to go take a shower.” 

He’s intentionally trying to be an asshole when he says that, but he does need to wash up eventually. His chores haven’t exactly left him smelling or feeling fresh. He’s already pushing the limit of his comfort by sitting on the bed, but he at least got to take his boots off before starting to cook, even if they’re kicked under the bed rather than their usual spot by the door. 

Though come to think of it, Steve probably needs to shower too. He hadn’t been in the headspace to do so last night even with all the sweat he’d let out in the gym, and while he isn’t as gross as Bucky feels, cleaning up would definitely be to his benefit. Bucky thinks back to his earlier idea about taking him back to the waterfall for a bath. Technically it would be more of a skinny dip, but if shampoo is involved- close enough. His hands would have to be unwrapped while in the water, but Bucky could still take care of most of his scrubbing for him. 

Of course, all this sweat pairing with a bath after breakfast would mean that they’d have to put off Bucky’s vague suggestion of sex for at least the next hour. Unless…

Bucky gives Steve a crooked grin before the blonde can even get an answer about Bucky leaving him to take a shower out. “Or maybe we can both get a little dirty before we wash off, huh?” He hooks a thigh up over Steve’s where they’re leaned up next to each other, effectively pinning him down on the bottom while he presses closer up top. “After all, we’re already getting old together. How about it, babydoll?” When Steve lets out a soft sigh, Bucky hums. “Want me to get a little hands on?”

“That would imply you can keep your hands off me in the first place,” Steve shoots back, but his cheeks are visibly flushed and his voice strained, a sight and sound that make Bucky’s grin widen so far it feels like it could split his face. 

He loves when Steve gets like this. Always trying to act like they don’t both know he’s as eager as ever underneath his stubborn-as-shit act to be sweet. When that act inevitably breaks it only makes it that much sweeter for Bucky to know that he’s the only one who’ll ever get to see. Steve’s not quite there yet, but Bucky knows exactly how to get him over that edge. 

After leaning over to set their fork and plate on the nightstand, Bucky unceremoniously shucks off his sweaty work shirt over his head, quickly followed by him showing down his equally sweaty panrs. They hit the floor only a few seconds before he’s turning and using his advantage of bare hands to take off Steve’s own hoodie that he’s had on since last night. Steve grunts when Bucky shoves him down on the mattress a second later, but other than that, he doesn’t complain. 

He looks surprised at how suddenly it’s all happening, but he should have known that was coming. Rolling to pin Steve on his back has always been one of Bucky’s signature moves in fucking and in fighting, even if Steve’s hands aren’t usually so wrapped up when stretched over his head. They rely more on trust than physical ties most times, but this is a special occasion. Steve had asked, and Bucky trusts him enough to let him keep the wraps on whether they need them or not. 

They don’t actually do much, but they do add a bit of an extra cushion for Steve’s wrists where Bucky places his prosthetic hand over top of them while sliding his flesh hand down to slip under the waistband of his borrowed boxers. Steve’s legs are still free to move as they want, and when Bucky presses down, they spread open and slide up to accommodate the width of Bucky’s waist between them.

Bucky’s grin after he kisses him doesn’t fade. “With a looker like you in my bed, you’re lucky I’m not on you twenty four hours a day,” he informs him, fingers scratching at the peach fuzz of Steve’s barely-there happy trail before dipping down again. “Any second I’m not touching you is a damn waste.”

“Then with how often I’m gone, you must be wasting away,” Steve mutters. He sounds like he means for that to be a joke, but the underlying upset in his tone makes Bucky pause his flesh hand creeping lower in favor of pulling away. Steve makes a sad sound when Bucky goes to move his metal hand as well, so Bucky stills to hold it in place. 

He takes a second to study Steve’s face, not sure what to say besides “It’s okay.” He’s not lying. He just needs Steve to see it that way, though it takes Bucky squeezing his wrists to get the man to open up his eyes at all. Once he does, Bucky looks into them and tries to get everything he’s feeling across as he repeats his first statement with the addition of a slight change. “We’re okay.”

Steve looks back up at him with a searching gaze. When he nods, Bucky has a thought in the back of his mind that getting Steve to admit something is okay is the equivalent of getting Atlas to shrug his shoulders. Bucky can only hope that one day, Steve will be able to drop the whole boulder, but until then- he’ll take care of him. He’ll take care of him even after, just like the wraps. Whether he needs it or not. Bucky will let him have it because it’s something that they’ll both always want. 

They both want it right now, Bucky can tell, from first hand feeling on his own end and the flush spreading down Steve’s neck as Bucky leans back down and brushes a kiss over a patch that’s turned particularly red. Even now that he has a beard of his own, Steve still seems to enjoy the scratch of Bucky’s marking him up. He enjoys it enough for his fingers and his cock to both twitch when Bucky bites down in the middle of his next kiss, Steve exhaling hard after Bucky licks over the mark to soothe the skin, sighing like he’s just gone through a good stretch or scratched a particularly satisfying itch. 

“Bucky,” he whispers, fingers curling in again as Bucky’s thumb presses into the divot that’s over one of his hips. He’s grateful for the touch, Bucky knows, but he’s also about to get frustrated over how far off it is from where he truly wants it. Case and point- “Buck, c’mon.”

“What?” Bucky feigns innocence, giving Steve a confused shake of the head right before he takes his hand out of Steve’s underwear completely and puts it down his own instead, pulling himself out to give Steve a front row seat as he gives himself exactly what Steve wants by beginning to jerk off. “You need something, babydoll?”

With both of Bucky’s hands removed, it’s surprising that Steve doesn’t use his freed up wrists to give Bucky a swing. Maybe there’s something to be said about honor based bondage after all. Bucky grins and lets out a noise that’s half huff and half moan as he gives himself a stroke up with a twist of his own wrist. Steve looks exasperated and endeared both over top of an underlying sourness that Bucky would almost call jealous. 

Bucky grins again. Steve being sour always has made things taste even better when he gets sweet- and Bucky will be making sure to give him a taste eventually. He just wants to get himself off first. He’s a gentleman, after all. Getting his own orgasm out of the way will only allow him to focus even more on Steve’s pleasure, though the man doesn’t exactly seem enthused about Bucky making him wait. Bucky will just have to remedy that. 

He does so by scooting up further on Steve’s body, straddling his torso so that his efforts are even more up close and personal in Steve’s face, the place where he has a feeling that the product of them is likely to end up. He doesn’t do much to try and draw it out- Steve might not be helping him along this time, but he had been the one to point out earlier that he couldn’t use his hands, so Bucky doesn’t mind too much. The sight of him lying there with his hands wrapped like a present and the rest of him pretty as a picture is enough, and even if it wasn’t-

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky swears, hand on himself speeding up just as fast as his heart rate does when Steve opens his mouth up and sticks out his tongue. “You want it there, sweetheart?” He reaches out his metal hand and cups Steve’s cheek where the scruff there cushions his palm as much as Steve’s bandages do for him up above. 

Steve nods best he can at such an awkward angle and that’s all the permission Bucky needs before he really gets down to it, grunting out low and broken off once he finally goes over the edge he’s been building up towards and flexes his thighs tight around Steve’s sides as he starts to come. It hits mostly where he’s aiming for- streaking over Steve’s parted lips, catching in the hair over the cheek Bucky’s hand isn’t covering, a final line paining down his neck like the finest, most filthy string of pearls Bucky has ever seen before he feels himself finally going through the aftershocks while still sitting on Steve’s chest, which is doing it’s best to heave as Steve tries to catch his own breath from underneath. 

He hasn’t been doing much moving, but his tongue is flickering out once Bucky finally tucks himself back in his briefs and climbs off of him, fingers echoing the motions of him trying to taste by twitching yet again. They do their best to curl into full fists once Bucky joins in, using a swipe of his thumb against the corner of Steve’s lips to gather a smear of his own come and feed it to him. It’s even more intimate than the way he had fed him the fruit, and Bucky almost leans back in to kiss some of the taste off of his lips- but that’s a thought that occurs before Steve lets out a whine so high it fails to match his body or his face, and the canting of his legs reminds Bucky that his sweetheart is still waiting to be taken care of too. 

Bucky laughs breathlessly and blows a strand off hair off of his forehead. “You need something there, Steve-o?” Even before Steve answers, Bucky is rolling back on top of him and perfecting his earlier position by pulling Steve’s boxers off completely. 

Steve huffs then hisses once the air hits his completely bare body. He may have grown a beard, but the rest of him is still nothing but dandelion fluff in comparison to the mane on his face. “You asked me that already,” he grumps. 

“Well?” Bucky raises an eyebrow and nuzzles his gaze closer, uncaring about the residual stickiness on his face as long as Steve doesn’t care about how his chores have made him smell. In all honesty, this situation might be impossibly different, but in some way it reminds of how things used to be when he’d come home from working the docks. 

If Steve shares the nostalgia, it makes him no less impatient, though to be fair, Bucky has been holding off for a little too long. “Buck-“ He finally brings up one of his hands to paw at Bucky’s shoulder in an attempt to get him to get a move on. He verbally requests that too. “C’mon.”

Bucky laughs again, but listens. Even if he’s the one holding the reins when they’re playing their games, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to keep his fella hanging. Not for too much longer, anyways. “I’ve got you, honey,” he murmurs, humming out a note he hopes is soothing as he wraps his hand around Steve’s cock. “I’ve got you.”

Steve’s smile looks almost sleepy when he relaxes back, hips tilting up into Bucky’s tightened grip in a motion that’s followed by a groan. “Always do,” Steve gasps, hands curling towards each other like he’s trying to put that statement in parentheses over his head. The one that follows is spoken in full volume, though. “I love you, Buck. Love you- love you-“ 

Bucky swallows down the oh sound Steve makes after that with an open mouthed kiss that tastes sweet like mangoes and contains a bitter edge that comes both from orange juice and his own release. It’s not exactly the peak of culinary combinations, but as kisses go, it’s good. With Steve, it’s always been good, because that's what he is right on down to his core. Bucky makes sure to tell him so. 

“You’re so good for me, honey,” he whispers, well aware at what weight using that name will hold when Steve hears it now. “So good, you hear me?”

Steve nods so fast and so jerky that it causes his words to come out stuttered when they leave his mouth. “Yeah- yeah, Buck,” he manages, eyes screwed shut while Bucky works him over. He’s not doing anything fancy, but Bucky likes to think he’s always been pretty talented with his hands, whether he’s holding a weapon or not. 

When Bucky continues, it’s with his lips pressed so close to Steve’s cheek that their beards start to tangle up as he speaks. “You deserve the world, Steven Grant. Right in the palm of your hand. You hear that too?” Steve nods again, but his eyes are so unfocused that Bucky can’t be sure any of the words are truly getting through. He finishes what he has to say regardless. “But you don’t have to carry the weight of the whole damn thing on your back, baby. No one should have to do that. But-“ He presses a kiss to the seam of where his scruff meets his skin. “If you’re gonna keep trying to hold up the sky, I’ll still be the one holding you.”

Bucky knows the speech he’s spewing out right now is more sappy than sensual, but he’d say his hand between Steve’s legs is enough to balance that out. Either way, when Steve comes a few seconds later after a wide eyed look of asking permission locked on Bucky’s face, it’s accompanied by a noise that’s so close to a sob Bucky almost worries that he’s accidentally upset Steve all over again. Thankfully, that doesn’t turn out to be the case, though Bucky is still quick to check in with Steve about it anyways. 

Steve is out of breath with his senses still obviously on edge from his orgasm, eyes glassy and stomach wet. He still manages to shake his head. “I’m fine,” he says quietly, the padded flat of one hand coming down to rest on Bucky’s back as he nuzzles his face into his neck. He’s lucky they’ll be washing up in a few minutes, because if they sit like this for too long, everything will stick, their beards included. “I feel good.” He blushes when Bucky’s look shifts from anxious to amused. “Great, actually.”

“Handjobs will do that to you,” Bucky nods, voice knowing and expression smug enough to get Steve’s to shift towards annoyance. Bucky snorts and wipes his flesh hand off best he can on Steve’s already filthy stomach, using a cloth to clean it off for real a moment later. Afterwards, he flops down on the bed, laying flat on his back with Steve tucked up by his side, Bucky’s right hand holding him in tight by the scruff of his neck. “Relax, sunshine. I didn’t say we were done for the day yet.”

That makes Steve perk up a bit, though he must know Bucky means that for after they actually get to the bath. Speaking of-

Bucky yawns and scratches at his chest, thankful that there isn’t anything stuck in at least that patch of body hair. “You want me to unwrap your hands for the walk out back?” he asks, reaching over and squeezing one in his grasp. He knows that neither of them want anyone else to see him like this. Ayo and the band aids was one thing, but no matter how nosy Bucky’s neighbors are or aren’t, this is different. “We can do ‘em up again once we get back.” He squeezes again. “But only if you want.”

It’ll actually be a good thing to get them off for a bit and let Steve gauge where his own head is at. Bucky can only read him so much, and it’s his decision at the end of the day. Bucky is glad when Steve nods his head, looking grateful for the chance. 

“But you’ll still wash my hair, right?” Steve turns the same color as a sunburn at the smile Bucky gives him for the question.

He gives him a kiss on the forehead for it too. “Of course I will,” he promises. Steve should know he doesn’t have to ask. Bucky is always willing to wash every inch of him. “You don’t have to have your hands wrapped up just to get me to use mine.” He gives Steve a careful look. “You know that, right?” Steve doesn’t say anything. Bucky sighs. They both have a lot of lessons to learn, even now that they’re no longer in their twenties. “They got any Greco-Roman myths about being a dumbass?” Steve might not be Atlas, but that doesn’t close him off completely from any comparisons. A hero is a hero, after all. Dumbassery might be both of their fatal flaws. 

Steve gives him a side eye, but doesn’t shove Bucky away when he pulls him got forward to slide off the bed. “I’m pretty sure that’s what most of them are about, but if you’re using the term Greco-Roman, I think you’d be the one to know.” He smiles down at his feet when Bucky stands in front of him to begin taking the bandages off. “More fancy words for a farmer.”

Bucky makes a mockingly hurt noise. “That’s a rude insinuation, you know.”

“I called you dumb even when we lived in the city,” Steve points out. “It’s not rude if there’s personal consistency.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky loops one of the loosened bandages around Steve’s neck and uses it to pull him in for a kiss, Steve’s hands still slack by his sides. “I taught you a lot of things, you know. So if the master is dumb, the student must be even stupider.”

“Now that is rude.”

Bucky pecks him on the lips again before answering. “You were the one who brought up consistency, so…” 

Steve makes a face and accepts the shirt Bucky tosses him to make sure they maintain at least some semblance of decency once they step outside the hut. “I take it back.”

“How about I take you out back?” Grabbing two towels and the grab-bag of shower clothes Bucky always keeps on close hand for Steve’s visitation weekends, Bucky lets the bandage drop as he begins backing towards the door. “You need me to call you?” Steve’s eyes narrow, and Bucky can see that he’s suspicious of what’s coming before it does. He’s right to be, because Bucky doesn’t waste a second before bringing both hands up to cup around his mouth to call out one of the worst lines he’s delivered in his life. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

Steve’s groaning at the same time he shoves a stolen pair of Bucky’s shorts on, stepping forward to follow him out towards the yard and around back. “My hands aren’t even wrapped anymore!” he complains, voice hard but eyes going soft when Bucky catches one of his hands in his own and swings their joined grips between them as they walk towards the worn down pathway winding amongst the trees. 

“You’re the one who brought up the kitten thing, not me.” 

Bucky knows he could probably get Steve worked up good if he continues to tease, but they’ve had enough drama for the weekend, he thinks. What they should be enjoying right now is some well deserved peace. So, with that thought in mind, he lets the argument drop, though he does keep Steve’s hand held tight against his own. He wants to take advantage of the freedom- and he means that about more things than one. Steve not having to run. Them being together. Steve’s knuckles being healed. Bucky being allowed to have two hands to hold him with. 

It’s a gift. Everything they have is, including the fact that they’re able to be back together again at all. Steve’s hands are a pride point, but Bucky is pretty proud of the point that they’re at right now too. 

Not perfect, but pushing forward, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. Hand in hand, just like they belong. Now, forever. ‘Til the end of the line. 

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand and feels his entire body warm from more than just the sun at Steve’s squeeze back and responding smile. 

This is what paradise must be like. He’s got his best guy with him, the both of them happy for now and working on healing so he’ll be able to stay that way. It’s a good point in life. Bucky thinks he deserves to be proud.

He smiles at Steve again and runs a thumb over his fingers, finding nothing but smooth skin. 

Yeah, he thinks. He and Steve are gonna be alright. 

 

Notes:

oh stevie pie ... oh bucky ... i love writing them in between civil war and infinity war so i hope you enjoyed reading it as well. as usual: begging for feedback. please. Please. it’s pride month! but even if you don’t leave a comment or kudos, thank you for your time and i will see you soon. until then, stay safe, stay cool.