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You opened the front door to Bucky, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, the hand of his metal arm braced on the other side. You took in the cut above his eye that was still bleeding down his cheek, the bruise already dark along his jaw, the wet patch on his shirt that made it cling to his ribs, and the embarrassed– or perhaps pained– expression that made a crease form between his brows.
“Hey…” he said slowly, wincing. You didn’t miss the way his eyes took in the large t-shirt– one of his– that you were wearing as pajamas.
You shook your head at him and sighed. “Bathroom, now,” you said before gesturing for him to come in. He nodded gratefully and clenched his jaw as he straightened, walking carefully into your home as if you wouldn’t notice the way he was favoring his right leg.
Closing the door, you watched him make his way through the living room to the bathroom down the short hall, his head bowed and right hand now pressed firmly to the ribs on his left side where the dark patch stained his shirt. You followed silently after him, pausing ritualistically at the record player that doubled as a radio in the living room. It was already tuned to a station that played oldies, and to the sound of “In The Sill of the Night” by The Five Satins, you walked toward the beacon of light pouring into the dark hall from the bathroom.
Bucky was already seated on the toilet lid, eyes adjusting to the soft yellow lights. His metal hand flexed where it rested on his thigh while his other hand was still firmly rooted to his side. He watched you warily– bracing for a lecture no doubt– as you crouched in front of the sink cabinet and retrieved the first aid kit you made sure to keep fully stocked at all times from its home.
“Y’know, you really don’t have to-”
“Don’t fight me on this, Barnes,” you said, sitting on his left knee and setting the first aid kit in your lap. “You’ll lose.”
You began your work with practiced hands– not because you were trained to clean cuts and bandage wounds, but because he’d come home so many times in bad shape that you had made sure to learn how to help him in what seemed to be one of the only ways he would allow.
Running some warm water, you soaked a washcloth—black, to avoid dealing with blood stains—under it. Squeezing out any excess water, you held out your hand and nodded pointedly at Bucky’s hand clutching his side. He relinquished slowly—always slowly, he never rushed this part—and laid his right hand palm up in yours, his bloody fingers long past startling you.
One after another, you washed his fingers clean of his blood. You lingered at each joint, spent extra time on his nails, and made sure to trace and retrace each line on the palm of his hand. He had told you once after waking from a nightmare that some nights he could still feel the blood on his hands, even see it if he wasn’t fully awake. Ever since, you’d been diligently thorough, hoping it comforted him, helped him see for himself that his hands were clean. Innocent.
When you’d finished, you gave his hand a once over before brushing a tender kiss to his knuckles. You heard him swallow as he flexed his fingers, lowering his hand to rest on your knee. His thumb rubbed there lazily, his palm warming your skin. A smile tugged at your mouth, and despite yourself, you shivered at his touch. You wrung out the washcloth and cupped his chin in your other hand, moving on to clean his face.
You felt his eyes on you, heavy and searching, trying to get you to look at him. The cool metal of his arm touched at the small of your back, making you flinch. “Stop trying to distract me, Barnes,” you scolded, the heat of it dulled with the way you were fighting a smile.
“Am I distracting you?” His metal fingers trailed up your spine, loitering at each vertebrae.
Rather than inflate his ego any further, you said, “Do you want a botched patch job or not?”
His answering chuckle rumbled through his chest and made warmth bloom in yours. Bucky’s eyes closed when you started wiping near his brow, almost leaning into your touch. “I like this song,” he admitted quietly. “We danced to this.”
“You mean you coerced me into swaying with you in the kitchen after you came home with a fractured wrist, a black eye, and… what was it?” You trailed off, pretending to mull over the answer you already knew.
Bucky sighed deeply, his face slacking in annoyance as he looked toward the door. “A bullet hole-”
“A bullet hole through said fractured wrist. Of course, how could I forget?”
“How could you forget?” Bucky repeated sardonically, most likely remembering the actual lecture you gave him that night.
“Is there a gunshot wound under your shirt or will I get a pleasant surprise and only find one from a knife?”
To answer, Bucky removed his hand from your back and grabbed the hem of his shirt, lifting it up just long enough to reveal a bloody gash along his ribs. “Surprise.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Setting down the washcloth you retrieved the bottle of alcohol and a cotton ball from the first aid kit in your lap. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Just have to disinfect it, slap on a butterfly bandage and that should do you.”
Bucky grimaced as you applied the stinging solution to the cotton ball. “Can’t you just put the bandage on?"
“James Buchanan Barnes, you’re filled with super soldier serum. It’ll sting for just a second.” You cupped his cheek, ignoring the grumpy look he’d fixed you with, and dabbed at the cut above his brow. He stiffened, his shoulders tensing and the hand on your knee gripping just a bit harder, but he breathed steadily. As you secured his bandage in place he peaked up at you from under his lashes and you shook your head fondly at him. “You’ll live, tough guy.” To appease him– and smooth the crease between his brows– you leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“When You’re Smiling” by Louis Armstrong bled into the bathroom from down the hall, and Bucky relaxed under you again.
Standing from your spot on his knee, you set the first aid kit beside the sink on the counter. “I think it’ll be easier for this one if you took your shirt off.”
Bucky shook his head, a soft chuckle slipping past his lips. “Any excuse…” He grabbed the hem of his shirt in his hands and pulled it up and over his head. Balling it up, he kept his eyes on you as he tossed it across the room into the small trash can near the door.
“Alright showoff,” you said, trying to deflect from the way your cheeks warmed at the sight of so much of his skin. Him leaning back with a smug grin and resting his vibranium arm on the back of the toilet was your invitation to begin your work.
You leaned forward and studied the cut, muttering, “Not as bad as I thought.”
“I did dodge the guy.”
“Didn’t realize you knew how to do that. You usually throw yourself in front of things coming at you.”
“Okay okay, y’know, I would appreciate a little bit of credit here. I didn’t get shot.”
“Alright, I’ll give you that one,” you said, re-wetting the washcloth and grabbing a large bandage from the kit.
“What else?”
You pursed your lips. “How about… a secret?”
“Now?”
You smiled as you started wiping away the blood on his side. “When I’m done. I don’t give those out for free, you know.”
Bucky huffed, a smirk on his lips as he watched your hands. You figured he always watched you as a reassurance– to know where your hands were and what they were doing to him when he hadn’t always had that luxury in the past when those hands had been Hydra. Your heart tightened in your chest at the way he trusted you, to let you so close when he was vulnerable like this.
As you dabbed the cut with antiseptic– gently, slowly, even though you knew he was hamming up wincing earlier– you remembered how he wouldn’t stop flinching the first time you’d tried to patch him up. He’d insisted that he could do it himself, even while he couldn’t stay on his feet, his head lolling and vision blurring from blood loss and the concussion he swore he didn’t have. He had passed out on the floor, propped up by the wall he’d slid down before you were done. You’d finally let yourself cry knowing he wouldn’t see how worried or how scared you were that you could be losing him, and that your meager skills wouldn’t be enough to keep him alive.
You smoothed the large bandage over his cleaned cut, double checking that the edges were all secure. “There. Good as new, or you will be in a day or so with the help of your healing factor.”
He thanked you, your name sounding like a sacred benediction falling from his lips.
You nodded and gave him a small smile as you threw out the blooded cotton balls, bandage wrappers, and wrung out the equally bloody washcloth.
“I’m sorry,” he said. You knew what he was doing– the guilt was setting in, or he was finally allowing himself to express what he’d been holding in.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, looking down at your hands. Because it was okay, you would never want him to feel like he couldn’t come to you.
“Doll...” Bucky’s hand gripped your wrist and he tugged gently, pulling you into him so you had to straddle his lap. He released your wrist and cradled your jaw, his thumb brushing your chin, the corner of your mouth. He eased you into meeting his gaze, not forcefully, the pressure he exerted was more of a question than any breed of demand. His stormy eyes—blue, grey, and green colliding in a combination that had quickly turned into your favorite color that didn’t have a name other than Bucky—pulled your focus. “I’m sorry,” he said again, fingers tightening their hold on you just enough to underscore his intent. “I know you worry. I don’t come home like this just so you’ll patch me up.”
“I’m just glad you come home,” you admitted, the words breathy in your tight throat. You touched your fingers to the bruise on his jaw, the edges already starting to change colors from the harsh purple it had been when he’d arrived to a muted blend of yellow, green, and brown. “Keep doing that, will you?” You were almost afraid to ask, the words thin and timid as they left your mouth.
“I will.” Bucky didn’t take his eyes off of you.
When you nodded and slid your arms around his neck, pressing your forehead to his, he slowly stood up. You wrapped your legs around his waist as Bucky held you to his chest, his vibranium arm cool where his fingers splayed between your shoulder blades.
He flicked the light off as he carried you out of the room– still favoring his right leg– and further down the hall toward your bedroom. Kicking off his boots and hiking you up higher around his waist, he pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw before laying you both down into the welcoming mattress.
“We left the radio on,” you said as you shifted to be more comfortable beneath him, your legs loose on either side of him instead of wrapped around his hips.
“Leave it,” Bucky grumbled as he snatched a pillow and slid it under your head for you. He tucked his head under your chin, his breath fanning against your collarbone while his arms stayed resolutely locked around you.
“You stink.” One of your hands found its way into his hair while the other grazed lazily along his spine. His skin was warm under your touch and seeping that warmth into you as he laid on your chest.
“We’ll shower tomorrow,” he murmured, the words buzzing against the hollow of your throat.
“It is tomorrow, Buck.” Your blood hummed quietly at his use of ‘we.’
“Later then.”
“I have to wake up early, you know.”
“I’ll wake you.” His voice was getting softer, measured and slow from the comfort of being wrapped up in you.
Long enough for several songs to play through in the distance- “I’ll Be Seeing You” by Billie Holiday, “It Had To Be You” by Frank Sinatra, and “I’d Rather Go Blind” by Etta James- your eyes were lulled to fall closed. You thought Bucky had already fallen asleep with how quiet he’d gone and how steady his breaths had become when he suddenly spoke.
“What was your secret?” His voice was low and thick, sleep trickling down his throat.
You smiled blindly into his hair, lips brushing the crown of his head. “I didn’t vote for you.”
Silence.
Then his laugh– not a soft chuckle, or the forced huff of air you’d heard time and time before– his real laugh, broke through the room like dawn.