#◜ bonjour motherfuckers ╱ threads .

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (5)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. WW2 Bucky swears so much. SMUT, so 18+ please.

A/N: Every love story begins somewhere. This is the first time I’ve really written 1940s Bucky, so I hope I do him justice. Also I may have a fondness for punching Steve Rogers in the balls, what can I say. Remember those hidden items from Chapter 2? Some of them pop up again!  

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

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PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Silence stretches longer and longer and Bucky finally realizes his lungs are burning. He lets out his breath with rush and leans forward. Elbows on his knees, he tries with everything in his heart, to remember.

“We’d met? Before then? We knew each other?”

She sits up straight, never breaking eye contact. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she searches for the right words. Bucky feels his heart thump wildly while he waits; her voice is laced with sadness when she speaks.

“The first time we met was in 1944. I was wearing grey and you were wearing blue.”

*****

Early January 1944 Somewhere in France

Bucky lays flat on his back, staring at the puffy white clouds floating by. Ears ringing, he breathes in a lungful of wet smoke while he waits.

Calming breaths, they always say. Clear your mind. Focus.

The bullet whizzes through the broken front window and explodes an empty water pitcher, covering him in shards of glass and yeah, that did it.

He’s fucking pissed.

“You piece of shit fucking asshole!” he shouts, flipping angrily onto his stomach and crawling toward another narrow window.

Hours of fighting and here they are, with Bucky stuck in the still smoking bones of a bombed-out apartment, unable to hit the sniper victoriously camped in the bell tower of the village church. Below him, Steve, Gabe, and Dugan are crouched behind the burnt shell of a truck, waiting patiently for him to sort it out.

Well. Patiently might be a lie.

“Barnes, I’m hungry,” Dugan calls up. “It’s not that hard, just point and fuckin’ shoot.”

Hunched now against a broken wall, Bucky grits his teeth while he reloads and calls down an insult.

“Maybe it’s time you tried a god damn diet, shithead. I’m fuckin’ working on it.”

He waits until the next shot comes, a zinger cracking the frame of the window beside him, and then he pops up, fires into the bell tower, and ducks back down.

“Anything?”

The only response, is another bullet, fired through the retaining wall. It blows through siding, pelting him with chunks of wood. One particularly jagged piece smashes into his right hand, slicing it open and drawing a line of blood from thumb to pinky.

“OUCH! Fucking ouch! God damn chickenshit motherfucking cocksucker, fuck you,” he yells furiously, briefly contemplating how many bars of soap his Ma would shove in his mouth if she heard his language. Switching the gun grip to an equally proficient left hand, he peers through the new hole in the wall, searching.

There.

An eagle-eyed gaze catches it, a momentary flash of skin through a chink in the stone tower. Holding his breath, Bucky finds his shot and fires.

Even from here, he knows it lands. There’s a moment of suspension, before a body collapses forward, catching on the wide window ledge and flipping out. Whistling through the air, it lands with a sickening crunch on the bricks. Down below, the men grimace.

Smiling grimly, Bucky climbs to his feet and leans against the busted window frame, lifting his helmet to mop up the rivers of steaming, muddy sweat streaming down his face.

Christ, this helmet smells like shit.

Slinging his rifle around his shoulder, he looks down to where the guys are still crouched. He points down at Dugan and holds up a middle finger.

“You owe me a smoke. Jackass.”

*****

Liberation creates a carnival atmosphere in the little French village.

Back on the ground, Bucky wanders through the crowds, accepting handshakes, slaps on the back, the occasional fervent kiss on the cheek. The flurry of excitement is tempered by a few harsh injuries, those who suffered before Captain America and his Howling Commandos arrived this morning.

Howling Commandos. Jesus H Christ, the PR war machine was sheer insanity, Bucky thinks contemptuously. Here comes Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s right-hand man! He makes the shot! He saves the day!

If he has to see one more of those idiotic comics, he’ll fucking scream.

With a dirty towel wrapped around his still bleeding hand, he stalks the injury line, searching for Jim Morita, because he just fucking cannot sew it himself. Last time he tried, he puked up beans on his own boots and Dugan laughed at him for three days and he’s not doing that shit again.

“Jim, can I get some help?” Bucky finds Morita setting a broken leg and drops to his haunches, unfolding the towel. Morita takes one look at it and shakes his head.

“No time. Sew it yourself or wait.”

“Well I ain’t god damn doing it. I’ll fuckin’ wait,” Bucky growls irritably. Stomping off with a huff, he plops on a bench and pulls the make-shift bandage tighter, wincing at the sting.

He finally has a few moments to himself, so he sits and hangs his head. Closes his eyes and relives that final shot. His stomach churns at the memory and he takes those deep breaths now, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Like so many times before, today was no different.

Down to the wire, all on the line. Here comes Bucky Barnes. He makes the shot. He saves the day.

That fucker deserved to get his brain splattered, but sometimes…Jesus. Sometimes he gets tired of doing the dirty work like this.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices when clunky leather boots stop in front of him.

Annoyed with the intrusion, Bucky looks up to find a woman looking down at him. She’s dressed in grey, dark trousers rolled up at the ankles, a light grey men’s shirt that looks two sizes too big, and a tattered leather belt. A moss green coat drapes her frame, falling to her knees and she has a black scarf tied around her head. Dropping a pail of fresh water next to him, she kneels in the dust at his feet.

Without a word, she takes his wounded hand and gently unwraps the dirty rag. Digging in her pocket, she pulls a clean cloth free, dunks it in the water, and carefully cleans the cut. Once the blood and grime are washed away, she pats it dry and motions for him to hold the cloth in place. Producing a sewing kit from her other coat pocket, she finds a clean needle and unwinds a length of blue thread.

Bucky’s so captivated by her efficiency, so mesmerized by the way she catches her tongue between her teeth, that he barely feels when she starts to stitch the skin together. Struck dumb, he gapes at her and let’s himself be manhandled. Glancing up, she offers a quick smile, before going back to her task.

It all happens in a matter of moments, but to Bucky?

A lifetime passes.

Nimble fingers make neat little stitches, and far too quickly, she’s releasing his hand. He swallows several times before he can finally make a sound. When he speaks, charm oozes from every pore, because he’s James Buchanan Barnes, for fuck’s sake. Shooting Nazis and hunting Hydra and talking to women are what he does best.

According to him, at least. Summoning his confidence, he pours it on.

In French.

“Bonjour,” he says smoothly and gives her the adorable smile he reserves for beautiful women and his Ma, when she’s really, really pissed. “Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en france qui ne m'aiment pas.”

Standing a few feet away, Steve Rogers makes a strangled noise and drops his face in his hands.

“Je m’appelle Sergeant James Barnes,” Bucky continues confidently. “Quel est votre nom?”

“Bucky,” Steve sidles up behind him, hissing under his breath. “You fuckin’ moron, you just said you’re getting lucky tonight and the women in France don’t like you.”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky hisses back. “I said I’m lucky, because she’s the most beautiful woman in France. I know how to speak fuckin’ French, Rogers.”

“Actually, he’s right,” she says. Clearly and in perfect English. “You need to make sure you keep that clean, Sergeant. I have fresh bandages if you need more.”

Bucky’s jaw drops.

Beside him, Steve, now officially his former best friend, starts laughing. Clapping Bucky on the shoulder, he gives the woman a grin.

“Sorry mam, we’re still working on his French. Great with a gun, always makes the shot, but you know – bit of an idiot sometimes.”

Swinging a blind fist behind him, Bucky punches Steve as hard as he can, which happily lands right in the balls. Steve backs away wheezing and Bucky smiles serenely up at her.

“Ignore him,” he says conspiratorially. “He drinks.”

Bucky feels his heart bounce wildly when she laughs. It sounds like music. He preens under her indulgent grin, before she moves along to help someone new.

On that cold January afternoon, covered in sticky blood and dirty sweat, and stumbling through terrible broken French, Bucky Barnes falls head over heels in love.

*****

Later that night, with their camp set up on the edge of town, the Howlies collapse. Plates of supper are passed around, followed by swigs from a beat-up silver flask; slowly and with certainty, the circle of men drifts from snarky, ribald jokes, into deep, dreamless sleep.

All except for two men.

Flicking the lid of his lighter, Bucky fingers the rusty coils. The night sky arcs like black silk above him and he thinks. About war. About death. About life and whatever the hell he’s gonna do when this thing ends, if he makes it out alive.

Somehow, that last thought leads him back to the woman he met earlier. Pretty smile, pretty eyes, pretty stitching. Pretty far out of his league. Can’t hurt to dream, though.

Lighting up the smoke he stole from Dugan’s pack, Bucky takes a long drag. He makes it halfway through, before restlessly tossing it into the low embers of the campfire. He climbs to his feet.

“I need a walk. You fuckers snore so loud, I don’t know how all’ve Hydra hasn’t found us.”

Keeping his eyes trained in the pitch-black night, Steve waves him away.

*****

White moonlight shines down into the clearing and she drops a basket of bloody, grimy cloth next to the creek. Singing under her breath, she dunks the cloth in the freezing water them and starts scrubbing. In the light of the moon, the rusty red blood turns black and for a moment, she can believe it’s nothing more than dirt. Dark stains bleed away in the lazy flow of water and life begins to feel clean again.

A small blessing, after a day of bloodshed. As she works, the words to her favorite song drift in and out, peppering the tune.

“We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…”

The quiet snap of a tree branch, of a footstep in the grass, abruptly shatters the night.

Heart in her throat, she draws a knife from her belt and leaps to her feet. Wide-eyed, she whirls to find the dark-haired man with the brilliant blue eyes from earlier – Sergeant Barnes, he said.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes softly, raising both hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I was just – I was walking and I thought I heard someone.”

She considers him for a moment. He’s taller than she thought. All lean muscle, moving with a slow grace that puts her at ease. A shadow beard covers his face, creeping down his neck, and his short hair looks smooth as black satin in the colorless night. He gives her a crooked smile and she lowers the knife, tucking it back at her belt.

“How is your hand?” she asks, her voice floating through the small clearing. Bucky glances down at the white bandage and flexes his fingers.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he says with a grin. “Thank you. For earlier. Although you did such a good job, probably won’t even scar. How’m I supposed to brag about my war wounds if you fix ‘em up so nice?”

Her lips curve up. “Something tells me you’ll find plenty more opportunities for trouble, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky. Please, call me Bucky,” he ducks his head bashfully when he offers the nickname. Ambling toward her, he points to a smooth rock close by. “Is it okay if I sit?”

In the space of a moment, his voice has gone soft and shy and she wonders how a man who seems so confident, can demonstrate such a sweet vulnerability. It charms her far more than the swagger she saw earlier today.

“Only if you promise to help,” she finds herself saying and he perks up.

“Anything you need,” he offers, folding his knees under as he plops down.

She hands him the edge of a sheet with the instruction to hold tight. Bucky grips the fabric in his left fist while she twists it tighter and tighter, wringing every last drop of water from the cloth. When it’s semi-dry, she hands him another, and another one after, until her basket is full.

They work in companionable silence. She glances up now and then, to find him watching her. Each time she meets his gaze, he gives her a slow smile.

As the last piece of cloth is dropped in her basket, she wipes her hands on the trousers and rubs sleepy eyes. Bucky jumps to his feet and reaches down, offering her a hand up. When she folds her cold fingers against his hot skin, the spark of electricity rockets down her back and explodes in her toes.

Oh.

Swaying slightly, she releases his hand quickly and steps back. Opting for distance between them, she picks up her basket and holds it in front, a useless barrier from the strange feelings his touch awoke. Her brain urges her to bid him goodbye, to walk away and not look back.

Her heart though. It has another plan.

“Would it be okay – could I walk you home?”

Part of her wants to say no. Beginning anything with a Soldier, it won’t end well. She’s been down this road before. She doesn’t think she can survive it again.

But the nervous hope she finds in those blue eyes stirs her soul, and she says something unexpected.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Bucky insists on carrying the laundry basket and they move slowly through the trees. The walk is oddly comfortable, filled with shy glances and an occasional brush of shoulders that makes her belly swoop. Guiding him along the edge of the town, all too soon they arrive at her little cottage sitting at the dead end of a narrow street. She takes the basket from his arms and balances it on her hip.

Quiet words warm the cold air around them, both prolonging the goodbye neither wants to give. It’s the ferocious barking of a dog down the street that finally makes her jump.

“I should get inside,” she says reluctantly and Bucky nods, looking down to watch his boot drawing a circle in the dirt. “But, now that you know where to find me, maybe you’ll come by sometime? Let me take a look at that hand?”

When he looks up, his smile takes her breath away.

“I absolutely will.”

“Goodnight Bucky.”

“Goodnight darlin’. Sleep well.”

*****

Two days later, a tentative knock sounds on her front door. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she opens it to find a soldier on her doorstep.

“Good morning,” Bucky says hesitantly, brandishing a bundle of holly. “Hope I’m not bothering you. I, um – I was hoping, maybe you could have a look at my hand?”

“Come in,” she beckons and Bucky steps inside, the smell of wintery air clinging to him. In the confines of her small home, he seems larger than life, this quiet American.

She collects a chipped white pitcher from her closet and fills it with water, arranging the holly and setting it on her kitchen table. Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed by color – red berries and green leaves, blue eyes and brown hair.

He lays his hand on the table and she unwraps the bandage. Beneath the strips of white, she finds something peculiar - after only two days, the wound looks several weeks old. Staring for a long moment, she finally looks up in confusion.

“That’s impressive.”

“I – yeah, I heal pretty quickly. Good genes, I guess,” he stutters. For some reason, she hears a twinge of panic in his voice.

“Well that’s great,” she says with a smile, her thumb brushing the thrumming pulse at his wrist.

“Yeah. I guess,” he mutters to himself.

With quick snips, she removes the stitches and dabs a bit of Vaseline along the line of puckered skin before wrapping it up again. Over and done then, there’s no real reason for him to stay longer, but – she doesn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offers. “It’s more hot water than coffee these days, but I have a bit left if you would like?”

Eyes brightening, Bucky happily accepts.

*****

“So, you’re not from here,” he guesses, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. “Your English is perfect. Better than most’ve the soldiers I know.”

She appears to choose her words carefully.

“No. My mother was French, my father was German, but I lost them both when I was young. After that, I found myself in London. I learned there.” She runs her finger along the rim of her cup, not looking up.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Without thinking, he reaches across the table to touch her hand, but pulls back at the last moment.

She thinks to herself, she wouldn’t have minded. She clears her throat and tries to smile.

“Tell me about you. About America,” she encourages. “I’ve never been, but always wanted to visit. What was Bucky Barnes like growing up in Brooklyn?”

Bucky leans back in the chair and crosses his ankles with a coy smile.

“Full of trouble, if you ask my Ma. But let’s just say all my worst decisions came from growing up with Steve Rogers.”

The late morning bleeds into early afternoon as they sit and talk. Conversation flows easily, punctuated with lazy grins and surprised laughter, and in her sunny kitchen, she feels a lethargic sense of peace. Something she hasn’t felt in years. Since before they came, before her world ended. Since that November night in Berlin.

All too soon, the shadows are stretching across his face and the battered living room clock strikes the late hour. Both of them start at the sound, before realizing how long they’ve been sitting together.

“Dammit,” Bucky mutters regretfully. “I better go, I’m on watch tonight.”

“Okay,” she says, disappointment in her voice. He reaches across the table again and this time, his fingers catch hers. He squeezes.

“Thanks for helping me today. Your bedside manner’s a helluva lot better than Morita. He usually just tells me to quit whining,” he gives an exaggerated eye roll as he rises from his chair and she laughs once more..

God. In one afternoon with him, she’s laughed more than in the past year.

It’s addictive.

Bounding down her back steps, Bucky heads toward their camp and she leans against the doorframe, watching. No more than a hundred yards gone, he spins around to see her one more time. Giving her a jaunty salute, he turns and takes off running.

It happens right there.

Shivering as the fresh air whips around her, she watches the silhouette of a soldier running toward the coming darkness. Slow as syrup dripping down her skin, the feeling sticks.

On that cold January day, wrapped in warm laughter and drowning in the blue of his eyes, she falls head over heels in love with Sergeant James Barnes.

*****

One of the small comforts in wartime, is consistency.

Each Sunday, the town still gathers in the small church to give thanks, an attempt for normalcy amid the increasingly bleak news arriving from the front. Here, everyone is welcome. Religion, race, nationality, none of it matters. She loves this progressive little village, where differences are celebrated, never shunned.

This sunny morning, she’s late. Hurrying down the aisle as the buzz of voices begin to settle, she finds a seat near the front and slides inside. Pulling off her gloves, she glances around the morning crowd.

Her heart jumps when she sees them.

Side by side, the two broad-shouldered men sit in the pew across from her. Both have carefully combed hair, one dressed in a brown leather jacket, the other in dark blue. As the Priest begins the opening prayer, Bucky meets her eyes and gives her a grin.

She turns away quickly, her jumping heart now racing.

One prayer rolls into another and then another after that. Occasionally peeking over, she finds the same scene each time. Captain Rogers kneels in the pew, head bowed, eyes closed, while Bucky – he doesn’t even try to fake it. His eyes are always fixed on her and when he catches her looking, he wrinkles his nose and makes a silly face and she looks away, fighting the urge to smile.

An hour slips by and as the service nears its conclusion, there’s a moment of contemplative silence. In the pious stillness, she hears a muffled thump. Looking over, she sees Steve glaring daggers at Bucky, who’s now rubbing his arm and glaring right back. Both men glance her way and when Steve catches her eye, a bright red flush blooms across his cheeks.

And Bucky?

He winks.

When the service ends, the low hum of voices picks up, people greeting each other, exchanging news. Pulling her gloves back over perpetually frozen fingers, she steps quickly into the aisle. Head bowed, she walks along, feeling a heated gaze following her. Unable to help herself, she peeps behind her one last time, and Bucky gives her a brilliant smile.

Everything about him is so big and bright and full of life. Her answering smile is so natural, it shocks her.

She steps into the fresh sunshine and she knows she should hurry home, she really does.

But instead, she lingers.

He catches her there, a light touch at her elbow. When she turns, the sun makes a halo behind him. Clear eyes meet hers, and she sees his face shaved smooth, his hair still damp and slicked back. There’s something almost angelic about him, this man she first discovered covered in the bloody aftermath of battle.

She thinks she’s never in her life seen someone so beautiful.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks hopefully, that edge of shyness creeping into his voice. When she nods mutely, he offers his arm and she wraps leather fingers around the folds of thick blue.

Their walk home is slow, meandering. People hurry by, saying hello and hiding their smiles at the sight of the handsome soldier so clearly smitten.

When they arrive at her front door, she throws caution to the wind and takes the plunge. Cupping Bucky’s face in her hands, she brushes her thumbs over his clean-shaven skin and presses her lips to his. He’s stunned at first, the pressure taking him by surprise, but then he responds with wild enthusiasm, lifting her up and spinning her in a crazy circle.

They’re both laughing, trading the sounds of happiness between them. Bucky keeps kissing her, his arms locked around her like he can never have enough and the taste of his first sweet kiss sears itself right into her heart.

*****

Life falls into a familiar pattern.

Bucky comes by every day. Once with a handful of sharp scented pine boughs, so fragrant they fill her entire home. Once more, to give her the bundle of colorful postcards he’d collected from his travels through Europe; cheeks flushing pink, he added a hand-painted card of Brooklyn Steve had drawn him, with two curvy hearts he added on the back. And then once again, with a handful of smooth, silvery blue pebbles he found in the riverbed. Little trinkets, small things to make her smile and –

To remember him. When the war drags him away again.

Every day he leaves her with a kiss, at first light and chaste, then harder and bolder, hot touches that burn. She knows she plays a dangerous game, balancing her heart on the blade of his knife, but she can’t find the motivation to stop.

And every day she waits for the axe to swing. For his orders to come, whatever new mission will march him away, back to whatever hell awaits. Every day she holds her breath, releasing it only as the sun sets, thankful the fragile world they’ve created lives to see another sunrise.

But one week turns into two, and that turns into three, while the Howlies wait for instructions. As the days pass, the men grow impatient, desperate to move along and tackle their next fight – all except Bucky. The longer he stays, the more he settles in the rhythm of life with her.

Steve is bemused, when he mentions it to her one night.

“I’m glad you found him that day, he’s had a – it’s been a hard war. For Bucky especially,” Steve looks into the distance, unfocused for a time as he sips a glass of watered-down whiskey. When he looks back to her, his eyes are serious. “I’ve never seen him this happy, so thank you. For keeping him together.”

Two days later, the inevitable message arrives.

The team sits in the town’s little pub, a cozy wooden building housing an out of tune piano and an old man who saws away on his accordion every night. Bucky leaps to his feet when she appears in the door and the men cough, hiding their laughter.

She greets them all, but her eyes are for one man alone.

“Will you walk with me?” he asks quietly, tangling his fingers with hers and tugging her into the cold night. They stop just outside the pub and he stares down at boots. Disappointment rolls off him in waves and she doesn’t want to ask; she knows what’s coming. Putting a cold finger under his chin, she tips his face up.

“Bucky?”

“We’re heading out at dawn,” he mumbles miserably, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh,” she says. Because that’s it. There’s nothing more she can say.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his never-ending warmth and she goes gladly, wrapping her arm around his waist. They begin to walk, making it behind the pub, before he leans to kiss her, and she catches him close. Walking her quickly backward, she bumps into the wall and his mouth is like fire as it trails down her neck, the tip of his nose ice cold as it follows.

Breathing hard, she holds him tight, pressing her body against him and Bucky groans quietly against her throat. Her mind racing, she steels her nerves to make a request.

“Come home with me. Stay with me tonight. Please,” she whispers.

He pulls back, surprise and desire playing over his face.

“Are you sure? I’m not expecting anything, you don’t have to – ”

“Stop,” she says, holding her fingers to his lips to shush him. “I’m sure. It’s been a long time for me, since I’ve been with anyone, but if you want – ”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “God, yes. Since the first day we met – you’re the only thing I’ve wanted.”

Like shadows they move through the dark streets, until they reach her home. There’s no hesitation as she unlocks the door and pulls him inside. Hands clasped together, she leads him upstairs and the sound of his heavy boots following her makes her stomach flutter.

Opening her bedroom door, she steps inside and Bucky pauses, surveying it all. Green quilts on her bed, a small stone fireplace in the corner, a cracked mirror and a dressing table by the window. Photographs in simple frames, a small jewelry box and a silver brush. A little dish by her bed holding the handful of pebbles he brought her. Little fragments of her spread through the room, and he drinks it up greedily, memorizing everything.

He closes the door behind him, still watching her carefully, as though he genuinely can’t believe his good luck. Without a word, he sheds the thick blue coat and unlaces his boots, kicking them away.

“Come here,” she murmurs, reaching for him.

He stands before her in the low firelight and she runs her hands up under his long-sleeve wool shirt, urging him to remove it. When he yanks it over his head and tosses it aside, her mouth goes dry at the sight. Cool, curious hands trace the hard planes of his body, through the dark hair on his chest, feeling the silver dog tags hanging from his throat, the pads of her fingers brushing over the wealth of scars scattered across his body. He sucks in his breath when her hands reach his trousers, but then she’s unhooking the buttons and pushing them down his legs and Bucky chokes back a stuttered groan.

Pushing him lightly, he drops to her bed and looks up with wide eyes. She slips her shoes off, stepping between his knees and she watches his hands clench tight, waiting. Her fingers fumble just a bit with the buttons at the top of her dress, and as each one pops free, his breath comes faster. At her waist, she shrugs her shoulders and the dress slides off, pooling at her feet.

Bucky blinks rapidly, stunned at the sight.

Reaching for his hands, she grips them tight and places them on her hips. Through the filmy white fabric of her underwear, the heat from his skin burns hot and she steps into that safe space, craving the warmth. Bucky tugs her forward, wraps his arms tight around her waist and buries his face into the softness of her belly. His breath huffs against her, and she combs her fingers through his hair, the nervousness slowly ebbing from his body.

When he finally looks up, the lust in his face nearly brings her to her knees.

Rough fingers catch in the band of her underwear and he drags it down, holding his breath until the reveal. She unclips her bra and lets it fall away, and he closes his eyes briefly at the sight, of her naked and open for him.

He wants to devour her.

Gripping her bottom firmly, he lifts her up and settles her legs on either side of him. The only barrier between them is the thin fabric of his cotton boxers and she utters a low moan when she grinds herself against him. That simple sound, her unexpected reaction to feeling him, nearly sets him off.

“Look at you,” he whispers hoarsely. “God, darlin’ I’ve been dreamin’ every night about this.”

Twisting quickly, he shoves her back into the quilts, covering her body and slanting his mouth hungrily over hers. She twines her arms around his neck, hips pushing against him.

Full body shudders rattle through her when he moves down her body, lips finding her breasts, teeth tugging gently at her nipples. Digging her fingers into his hair, she arches up and he slides an arm beneath her, keeping her body bent into the heat of this mouth. Bottomless black eyes lift to watch, and he sucks harder, relishing her breathless reactions.

If she let him, he’d stay there for days, teasing and tasting and touching, but she tugs at his hair, begging for his lips again, and he crawls back up her body. Shaking hands bracket her face and she feels him, hard and heavy, between her legs.

“You’re okay? You’re sure?” he murmurs in her ear and her heart nearly bursts at the concern in his voice.

“I’m sure,” she breathes.

At her promise, Bucky wraps a shaking hand around himself and shifts his body. With one smooth move, he buries himself inside her and the stretch, the thick feel of him, it punches the breath from her lungs. When his hips are flush against her, he stops, resting his head on her chest while he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he looks up, the raw emotion in his face is a stark reminder of what this means. For both of them.

She never knew.

Never understood it could be like this. That it could feel this way. Her heart hammers furiously against her ribs, so hard she marvels that it doesn’t crack her bones and fly away.

Bucky pulls her leg up, hooking it around his waist, and his hips begin a slow roll. Staring into her eyes, he pushes into her, again and again, the drag of his cock catching unknown nerve endings, sending pleasure rippling through her. Minutes drift by, time meaningless as they move together. She locks her fingers behind his neck, her back arching with each thrust and he’s lost in the uniqueness of her, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, every mark on her skin.

And when he looks down between their bodies, to where he can see himself pushing into her, he nearly comes at the sight.

“Can you come for me darlin’?” he rasps, his hips unconsciously snapping faster. “Can I help you?”

She releases her grip on his neck, one hand sliding to hold his sweat-slicked bicep, the other reaching between them to touch herself. “Kiss me,” she urges, and he complies, slipping his tongue between her parted lips. He can feel her fingers rubbing between her legs, pausing now and then to touch him, to feel the way he thrusts into her and he groans into her mouth.

Fighting himself harder than he’s ever done before, he tries to keep from coming, desperate for her to beat him to the finish. Broken little noises leave her throat as he drives himself into her, faster and harder, his rough thrusts lighting sparks beneath her skin, until she suddenly clutches him close. Bucky feels her body spasm around him, squeezing him so fucking tight while the tremors wrack her body, and he swallows down her breathless cries.

“That’s it darlin’, that’s it, there you go,” he pants against her lips, grinding himself into her until he follows right behind, coming with a soft grunt.

Chest heaving, Bucky strokes his fingers down her sides, reveling in the silky feel of her damp skin. When he can catch his breath, he rolls onto his back, keeping her tucked against his chest. She clings to him, refusing to let go.

Pressing trembling lips against the sheen of sweat on her forehead, he pulls the blankets over them and locked together, they fall asleep.

*****

The barest hint of morning light illuminates the eastern horizon when Bucky eases from the bed, tucking the blanket around her to keep the cold draft away. Regret already licks up his spine at the thought of walking away, of leaving behind the precious world he’s found here with her.

He buttons his trousers, laces his boots, slips on his coat. Quickly, quietly, efficiently, like a good soldier does. He adds more kindling to the red embers of the dormant fire, coaxing it to flare again, knowing if he can’t be here to keep her warm, something else will have to do.

Minutes rush too quickly now, and as thin fingers of morning light inch across the land, Bucky knows his time is up.

Falling to his knees beside the bed, he rests his chin on the mattress and brushes gentle fingers down her cheek. Her eyes are still closed, but he knows she’s awake. Lips curve up at his touch and Bucky leans in, pressing his lips lightly to hers. Reaching from under the covers to wrap her fingers around the back of his neck, she keeps him close. She deepens the kiss and Bucky sinks into it, his mouth moving eagerly against hers. The heat builds, until he pulls away with a reluctant sigh.

Opening her eyes, she finds him nose to nose with her.

His black eyelashes are so long, she wonders how he ever sees through his scope.

“I love you.”

She sucks in a shocked breath at his declaration. But he’s so perfectly composed. Content with the words he’s offering, ones she never expected. After everything she’s been through, everything she’s done, she never believed she could have something like this.

“Bucky – “

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know.”

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe it’s not possible to feel this way already. Maybe sweet words will crumble to dust in the harsh light of day.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But here’s the thing. The world is at war and Death walks in his shadow, stalking him with her sharp bullets and shaper blades, and God knows what the future will bring.

She only knows she wants one. She wants this. She wants him.

“I love you too, Bucky,” she whispers, and the words feel right. Her fingers rub the short hairs curling at his neck and Bucky melts into her touch. “Don’t go. The world can wait, can’t it? I want you to stay.”

“I want to stay. More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he whispers back, nuzzling into her neck. She turns to brush her lips against his beard and she feels him swallow hard. “I’ll write you. Often as I can. We gotta use code names out there, so don’t be surprised when you get letters from some strange guy named Jimmy.”

“Jimmy. I like it,” she says with a sleepy smile.

His grin mirrors hers and he kisses the tip of her nose. When he speaks again, a hint of desperation bleeds from the sweet drawl.

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

“I will,” she says softly. “I’ll always wait.”

Just like that, he offers his whole heart and she gives hers freely in return. Both know their world is dark and unforgiving, and this war could make liars of them both, but neither cares. To find love in this bleak life is a rare opportunity and the temptation is too strong.

Bucky kisses her one last time and rises to his feet. She watches him pause at her bedroom door to give one more crooked smile, and then the door is clicking shut and he’s gone. Alone again, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets.

It’s hell, she thinks, to love a soldier.

Burying her face in the faded green pillow, her heartbroken tears fall fast and thick, soaking silently into the soft cotton.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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