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Sarah waits until the boys are asleep. When the house is quiet, settled into its groans and bones, and Bucky can keep an ear out for the slight creak of her bedroom door opening. It’s a signal and a sign. That he’s allowed in. That she’s letting him in. It took more than his stuttered “hi” to make that happen. More than blushing. He’s so out of practice with talking, flirting, with being anything besides a weapon. But that’s okay because Sarah is happy to teach him everything he’s missed. Not like she does with her sons—not remotely—but with the same firmness, the same conviction she employs in every other aspect of her life. Sarah Wilson has no patience for fools. He had to earn her trust. Even though he hasn’t yet earned his own.
“What kind of grown man calls himself ‘Bucky’?” she laughed the first time she invited him into her bed.
“One who doesn’t really remember how to be James,” he admitted as he tugged off his jeans and shucked a borrowed shirt of Sam’s that fits a little too snugly.
Sarah’s helped with those memories, those lessons, a half dozen times now. Straddling his hips. Pressing his hand above his head on her mountain of pillows. Telling him to “hush” so he doesn’t wake AJ or Cass or, god forbid, her bossy and overprotective brother. Never mind that Sarah can more than hold her own. That she’s held her family and her family business together for years and could probably kick Sam’s ass blindfolded. She tells him all of this with a half-smile after he’s exhausted himself between her gorgeous thighs. With her taste still on his tongue. If it’s a weird subject for pillow talk, Bucky’s been out of circulation too long to know. And he doesn’t mind. He likes listening to her. Being with her. Skimming his fingers across her soft skin while he admires her steel core.
The first time he took off his prosthetic arm, she didn’t even flinch. She inspected the release mechanism as he explained how Ayo sprung it while they were sparring. Traced the base where it is fused to his flesh. And then she told him to get on the mattress so she could spring his release mechanism. Since then, he’s gotten off so many times while her fist pumps his dick. While she says “trust me” and “don’t come until I tell you” and “keep your voice down.” Him. A killer who never used to speak. Now a man who strings nonsense words together and thrashes in the sheets. There’s just something about a strong woman taking him by the balls that does it for him like nothing else. There’s just something about Sarah that does it for him like nothing else.
Sarah and Sam and the kids and this house. The boat. Delacroix. He hasn’t had a home in a century but this is damn close. Close to perfect. Close to everything he’s ever wanted. Close to his heart.
The door creaks anew as he slips out a few hours before sunrise, staging a token protest at his departure. Her voice follows him over the threshold. “You can stay here, you know,” she murmurs with sleepy amusement, shifting amidst the pillows to watch him go. “You don’t have to keep sleeping on the couch.”
But he does. Because he hasn’t yet earned the right to stay. And he really wants to work at it.
James really wants to.
Then maybe he could be a husband. A stepfather. A brother.
Maybe he could be safe.
-end-