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[ He's never had to work this hard to court or woo anyone.
And, sure, it's been about eighty years since Bucky last had to do those things (he's not really going to count his recent failed dating attempt, thankyou kindly), but he remembers it being so easy. Once upon a time, he had natural charm, and being around people came easy. Now he know he's stiff and awkward and too intense and the only person who seems to make him feel like his old self again is Sam. Bucky's been trying to hint at his obvious affection. As if he hasn't done enough between helping with the boat, or bringing Sam a real Captain America suit, or all the other stuff between now and then. It used to be a lot easier in the Forties. People, Bucky thinks, expect a lot of different things now when they want to date.
Hell, most people seem to skip the courting process all together and while Bucky can see the convenience, what's the point if you don't even get to know the person?
But Bucky's realized that he has to be direct. That's what people want these days. Less subtle hints and acts of affection and more straight-forwardness. So he'll be straight forward, and either he'll fall flat on his face and have to go back to living on his own for the rest of time, or it'll work in his favour.
And he's pretty sure it'll work in his favour.
Bucky shows up with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Nothing too showy, but nothing small, either. Just a generous amount of in-season blooms that he holds in his hand as he makes his way in through the back door, taking off his sunglasses. ]
Honey, I'm home.
And, sure, it's been about eighty years since Bucky last had to do those things (he's not really going to count his recent failed dating attempt, thankyou kindly), but he remembers it being so easy. Once upon a time, he had natural charm, and being around people came easy. Now he know he's stiff and awkward and too intense and the only person who seems to make him feel like his old self again is Sam. Bucky's been trying to hint at his obvious affection. As if he hasn't done enough between helping with the boat, or bringing Sam a real Captain America suit, or all the other stuff between now and then. It used to be a lot easier in the Forties. People, Bucky thinks, expect a lot of different things now when they want to date.
Hell, most people seem to skip the courting process all together and while Bucky can see the convenience, what's the point if you don't even get to know the person?
But Bucky's realized that he has to be direct. That's what people want these days. Less subtle hints and acts of affection and more straight-forwardness. So he'll be straight forward, and either he'll fall flat on his face and have to go back to living on his own for the rest of time, or it'll work in his favour.
And he's pretty sure it'll work in his favour.
Bucky shows up with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Nothing too showy, but nothing small, either. Just a generous amount of in-season blooms that he holds in his hand as he makes his way in through the back door, taking off his sunglasses. ]
Honey, I'm home.
[ Delacroix's been looking good on Bucky, if Sam's honest. And it didn't go beyond his notice. Bucky's always been handsome,if you're into hobo chic, but here... he's relaxed in ways he wasn't before. Not always, not fully, but it's a world of difference compared to before. Sam likes to see it on him. The easier smiles, the way his eyes crinkle when he grins. The way he chats to Mama Mabel behind the counter of the local bakery, and the way people around here have generally adopted him.
Didn't take long after the mess with the Flagsmashers for them to decide that Bucky was spending too much time here to really need that apartment in NYC, and that if he moved here, they should get out of Sarah's hair. So... here they are. Got a nice little fixer upper, spent a few weeks working on it, making it a home. 10 minutes from Sarah's, with a nice back porch and a cute pier of its own. Enough space to land a quinjet outside if need be, and for them to have set up a training area.
They've started looking into getting a small place in NYC or DC, too, just something small where they can crash when work keeps them there longer. Turns out, Bucky's not exactly poor, given that the government quietly provided him with a generous backpay as the longest POW in history.
But Delacroix, in the meantime, has become home, and Sam loves their life together. Loves evenings spent cooking, days spent tending to the abandoned Reggio Cemetary, like all local fishermen do, afternoons spent taking Sarah and the boys to the big parish cemetary to visit the Wilson family graves. Trips to New Orleans to get some culture into this poor man. Nights sipping drinks on their own dock.
It's a good life. Sam wishes he didn't feel like it could be better. Bucky's been... charming, to say the least, and always willing to lend a hand. On his best behaviour, and whenever they visit Sarah, Sam can take a guess as to why, sees how Bucky is with her and the kids, and feels his heart ache and sink.
Isn't gonna say anything, 'cause lord knows his sister deserves some happiness, and so does Bucky, so he'll... he'll just... figure it out. Keep himself quiet. He wants for nothing in life, he's decided.
Except when Bucky comes home, calls out like that and has flowers in his arms, something inside Sam's chest flutters pleasantly, and he yearns in ways he has not in years. Honey. Doll. Sweetheart. Sam would give so much to be... but he swallows it. Can't quite help the way he looks, though, mouth lifting into a soft smile that makes his dark brown eyes bright. ]
Honey, huh? Those are nice, Buck. But you know we ain't going over to Sarah's tonight, right?
[ Because clearly, that must be why Bucky brought flowers. Right? ]
Didn't take long after the mess with the Flagsmashers for them to decide that Bucky was spending too much time here to really need that apartment in NYC, and that if he moved here, they should get out of Sarah's hair. So... here they are. Got a nice little fixer upper, spent a few weeks working on it, making it a home. 10 minutes from Sarah's, with a nice back porch and a cute pier of its own. Enough space to land a quinjet outside if need be, and for them to have set up a training area.
They've started looking into getting a small place in NYC or DC, too, just something small where they can crash when work keeps them there longer. Turns out, Bucky's not exactly poor, given that the government quietly provided him with a generous backpay as the longest POW in history.
But Delacroix, in the meantime, has become home, and Sam loves their life together. Loves evenings spent cooking, days spent tending to the abandoned Reggio Cemetary, like all local fishermen do, afternoons spent taking Sarah and the boys to the big parish cemetary to visit the Wilson family graves. Trips to New Orleans to get some culture into this poor man. Nights sipping drinks on their own dock.
It's a good life. Sam wishes he didn't feel like it could be better. Bucky's been... charming, to say the least, and always willing to lend a hand. On his best behaviour, and whenever they visit Sarah, Sam can take a guess as to why, sees how Bucky is with her and the kids, and feels his heart ache and sink.
Isn't gonna say anything, 'cause lord knows his sister deserves some happiness, and so does Bucky, so he'll... he'll just... figure it out. Keep himself quiet. He wants for nothing in life, he's decided.
Except when Bucky comes home, calls out like that and has flowers in his arms, something inside Sam's chest flutters pleasantly, and he yearns in ways he has not in years. Honey. Doll. Sweetheart. Sam would give so much to be... but he swallows it. Can't quite help the way he looks, though, mouth lifting into a soft smile that makes his dark brown eyes bright. ]
Honey, huh? Those are nice, Buck. But you know we ain't going over to Sarah's tonight, right?
[ Because clearly, that must be why Bucky brought flowers. Right? ]
[ continued from HERE]
Yes.
[ The words come a little too easily. It itches at the back of Sam's mind, the awareness that he's not usually this agreeable, this docile to be led. He doesn't feel dizzy, though, just a little lighter. His thoughts wander, briefly to the strangely sweet smelling flower someone on the streets tucked into his breast pocket, to musings on the source of his strange willingness to just 'yes and' all current developments.
It occurs to him he should actually ask where they're going, but something in hims is so bone deep mellow that he ends up not caring, tugging along in full capacity of his wits, but with something inside of his stomach rolling at the very thought of saying no to anything T'Challa asks.
Sam frowns. Is vaguely aware of being led through doors, and concludes 'building' somewhere in his mind. Is even more aware of the fact that under usual circumstances, he'd have at least stated his case, that he was on his way somewhere with purpose, that this sidetrek may well blow his operation. But the thought comes and it goes, and Sam just follows along. Too quiet, perhaps. Because T'Challa told him to choose his words wisely. Curious, that. ]
I should probably make you aware that there's a very real chance I've been drugged or otherwise compromised.
Yes.
[ The words come a little too easily. It itches at the back of Sam's mind, the awareness that he's not usually this agreeable, this docile to be led. He doesn't feel dizzy, though, just a little lighter. His thoughts wander, briefly to the strangely sweet smelling flower someone on the streets tucked into his breast pocket, to musings on the source of his strange willingness to just 'yes and' all current developments.
It occurs to him he should actually ask where they're going, but something in hims is so bone deep mellow that he ends up not caring, tugging along in full capacity of his wits, but with something inside of his stomach rolling at the very thought of saying no to anything T'Challa asks.
Sam frowns. Is vaguely aware of being led through doors, and concludes 'building' somewhere in his mind. Is even more aware of the fact that under usual circumstances, he'd have at least stated his case, that he was on his way somewhere with purpose, that this sidetrek may well blow his operation. But the thought comes and it goes, and Sam just follows along. Too quiet, perhaps. Because T'Challa told him to choose his words wisely. Curious, that. ]
I should probably make you aware that there's a very real chance I've been drugged or otherwise compromised.
[ continued from HERE. ]
[ Sam shrugs a little. The gesture almost seems dismissive, but the way he briefly glances down, frowns, lips pressing together - that isn't. ]
Yeah. Don't change the fact that Avengers failed you.
[ Failed Natasha, too. His expression twists for a moment - the sympathy and understand and patience he gives her overshadowed by grief and bitter anger. Because he too returned to a world that suddenly lacked Natasha, and had to swallow down his thoughts when there was no large funeral service for her, just a small headstone in Ohio that Sam didn't even know about until much later. ]
You deserve to have the ways in which you were failed acknowledged and addressed. Someone should apologize to you for how you were let down. Someone should see you and know that's the least you deserve. I'm the one that's here - so I'm the one who takes responsibility. [ Sam swallows. ] I'd give you more than words if I could.
[ Hell, he'd throw himself off a cliff on an alien planet to give her back her sister, quite honestly, because Natasha didn't deserve that - to die so far from home, not even her body brought back. ]
[ Sam shrugs a little. The gesture almost seems dismissive, but the way he briefly glances down, frowns, lips pressing together - that isn't. ]
Yeah. Don't change the fact that Avengers failed you.
[ Failed Natasha, too. His expression twists for a moment - the sympathy and understand and patience he gives her overshadowed by grief and bitter anger. Because he too returned to a world that suddenly lacked Natasha, and had to swallow down his thoughts when there was no large funeral service for her, just a small headstone in Ohio that Sam didn't even know about until much later. ]
You deserve to have the ways in which you were failed acknowledged and addressed. Someone should apologize to you for how you were let down. Someone should see you and know that's the least you deserve. I'm the one that's here - so I'm the one who takes responsibility. [ Sam swallows. ] I'd give you more than words if I could.
[ Hell, he'd throw himself off a cliff on an alien planet to give her back her sister, quite honestly, because Natasha didn't deserve that - to die so far from home, not even her body brought back. ]
[ — curious (as cats are) that he is not subject to the Captain's rapier wit. And that in leading, to observe how one is followed. He would like to say it's because of trust, but when T'Challa glances back towards Sam, his eyes narrow in careful scrutiny. It's fortunate they are near a safe(r) district, and that the eyes that all watch them are friendly to Wakanda. For now. ]
[ They stop only when Sam warns him, at the side of a lobby with a plush but hideous carpet, waiting for the elevator. ]
It has become clear. Be at ease, Captain, we are going to a safe place.
[ They stop only when Sam warns him, at the side of a lobby with a plush but hideous carpet, waiting for the elevator. ]
It has become clear. Be at ease, Captain, we are going to a safe place.
[ continued from HERE. ]
[ Natasha would be a sight for sore eyes even without this magnetic pull between them they've been dancing around that she's so very creatively decided to tackle now. Really now, asking him how to tell a guy she wants to sit on his face. He'd even been genuine in his response, somehow fighting the urge to throw his phone all the way across the room lest he just respond with 'Don't tell him, I volunteer'.
All things considered, that turned out nicely in his favor after all.
He throws her an easy grin as he follows inside, taking off the goggles first, then the heavy wingpack and leaving them by her coatrack. ]
I feel like I should be smooth and give you a line 'bout how I was just in a hurry to be at your beck and call... but honestly, it's cold as shit without the flight suit. Upside: The wine's got a good temperature.
[ Speaking of: He hands the bag over. ]
[ Natasha would be a sight for sore eyes even without this magnetic pull between them they've been dancing around that she's so very creatively decided to tackle now. Really now, asking him how to tell a guy she wants to sit on his face. He'd even been genuine in his response, somehow fighting the urge to throw his phone all the way across the room lest he just respond with 'Don't tell him, I volunteer'.
All things considered, that turned out nicely in his favor after all.
He throws her an easy grin as he follows inside, taking off the goggles first, then the heavy wingpack and leaving them by her coatrack. ]
I feel like I should be smooth and give you a line 'bout how I was just in a hurry to be at your beck and call... but honestly, it's cold as shit without the flight suit. Upside: The wine's got a good temperature.
[ Speaking of: He hands the bag over. ]
Edited 2021-11-28 08:06 (UTC)
Yeah. Whatever you say.
[ Not dismissive, not a quip as is so wont to fall from his lips. And it's curious, because Sam doesn't feel sluggish, doesn't even feel like part of him is protesting being this... agreeable to everything that's being said. And yet here he is.
The thought sinks in that since nobody had reason to suspect Sam would make contact with T'Challa. So either Sam, bad at undercover work as he is, blew his cover and was targeted by people who wanted him to be real mellow and agreeable to anyone he'd end up in contact with - a chilling thought - or he was seriously unlucky and targeted as a random unlucky citizen of Madripoor. Chilling, as well, on a more seedy level. ]
I feel like I should question you more about having a safe house in Madripoor.
[ Not dismissive, not a quip as is so wont to fall from his lips. And it's curious, because Sam doesn't feel sluggish, doesn't even feel like part of him is protesting being this... agreeable to everything that's being said. And yet here he is.
The thought sinks in that since nobody had reason to suspect Sam would make contact with T'Challa. So either Sam, bad at undercover work as he is, blew his cover and was targeted by people who wanted him to be real mellow and agreeable to anyone he'd end up in contact with - a chilling thought - or he was seriously unlucky and targeted as a random unlucky citizen of Madripoor. Chilling, as well, on a more seedy level. ]
I feel like I should question you more about having a safe house in Madripoor.
[If there was one thing Natasha loved, it was a side door. To be clear: kicking open a side door, because while her opening line had been rather indirect, there was no way to mistake the follow up. As much as she enjoyed the magnetic tension, someone would always have to make the first move.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek as she accepted the bag.]
Well, I'd offer to warm you up, but that feels a little cheesy. I've got a fire going in the living room. I'll be there in a minute.
[She lifted the bag to indicate her intention and disappeared into the kitchen. True to her word, she joined him in the living room after a few minutes with two glasses of the red. She handed him his wine and then tipped her own glass in acknowledgement as her mouth curled in a smirk.]
To being unladylike.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek as she accepted the bag.]
Well, I'd offer to warm you up, but that feels a little cheesy. I've got a fire going in the living room. I'll be there in a minute.
[She lifted the bag to indicate her intention and disappeared into the kitchen. True to her word, she joined him in the living room after a few minutes with two glasses of the red. She handed him his wine and then tipped her own glass in acknowledgement as her mouth curled in a smirk.]
To being unladylike.
[ It's almost amusing, how strangely restrained and sweet this feels given that the intention is for this to absolutely lead to Natasha taking a seat on his face and them bringing some mutual ruin of the very fun variety to each other. And hey, who could blame her? Sam knows he's got a nice face. Knows it'll look good between deceptively slender thighs that could take him out.
So maybe he's a bit of a thrill seeker. What can he say? Natasha is a thrilling woman. More than that, of course, she's a wonderful woman. Thankfully, attraction can be wonderfully multi-layered.
Their glasses clink. ]
To being unladylike. I have a feeling that's going to go very well for you.
So maybe he's a bit of a thrill seeker. What can he say? Natasha is a thrilling woman. More than that, of course, she's a wonderful woman. Thankfully, attraction can be wonderfully multi-layered.
Their glasses clink. ]
To being unladylike. I have a feeling that's going to go very well for you.
[Natasha considered the wine as one last opportunity to savor the anticipation of the evening. Maybe even build a bit more of it. One of her brows quirked when he answered the toast.]
Oh yeah?
[A look of amusement crossed her face momentarily as she took a sip of her wine and gestured for him to sit. She appreciated his easy confidence, the sincere charm. As far as she was concerned, mutual attraction was best when it was also a little bit of a sport. She had a feeling that they would be well matched. With a thoughtless grace, she sat in his lap, her arm curling along the back of the chair. There was a hint of mischief in her gaze.]
How well?
Oh yeah?
[A look of amusement crossed her face momentarily as she took a sip of her wine and gestured for him to sit. She appreciated his easy confidence, the sincere charm. As far as she was concerned, mutual attraction was best when it was also a little bit of a sport. She had a feeling that they would be well matched. With a thoughtless grace, she sat in his lap, her arm curling along the back of the chair. There was a hint of mischief in her gaze.]
How well?
[ Mischief easily matched in the lazy, slightly lopsided curl of his own smile. Sam brought one arm up, resting it along her thigh comfortably so his hand could settle on her waist. Almost innocuous but not quite. He could shift is hand just so to turn this from a casual touch into something much more intimate, same as she could shift in his lap just so to change the tone and mood.
He didn't mind at all to be the canary when she looks like a cat about to pounce.
Sam took a slow sip of his wine, let it linger. Licked the moisture and taste off his lips before tipping his head back to look up at Natasha from under the sweep of long lashes. ]
Well for one, I believe I'm gonna eat very well tonight. Much as you wanna, and as unladylike as you need. Other than that...
[ Sam leaned his head back further, shifted slightly with her in his lap. ]
Anything you want.
He didn't mind at all to be the canary when she looks like a cat about to pounce.
Sam took a slow sip of his wine, let it linger. Licked the moisture and taste off his lips before tipping his head back to look up at Natasha from under the sweep of long lashes. ]
Well for one, I believe I'm gonna eat very well tonight. Much as you wanna, and as unladylike as you need. Other than that...
[ Sam leaned his head back further, shifted slightly with her in his lap. ]
Anything you want.
[It was almost like a dance, or a bet, the way that they both casually escalated the intimacy of touch. She met his gaze as he angled her head, and she lifted her free hand to trail her index finger along the line of his jaw with slow deliberation. She skimmed down his neck from there, then let her palm run across his chest before her hand came to rest.
A chuckle escaped her mouth at the way he said he was gonna eat very well. And a look of interest crossed her face when he continued. Her mouth lilted into a devious smile as her hand slid back up to curl over his shoulder.]
Anything?
[She leaned in as she said it, her head tipped slightly so that her lips were only a breath away from his.]
Because I've got ideas.
A chuckle escaped her mouth at the way he said he was gonna eat very well. And a look of interest crossed her face when he continued. Her mouth lilted into a devious smile as her hand slid back up to curl over his shoulder.]
Anything?
[She leaned in as she said it, her head tipped slightly so that her lips were only a breath away from his.]
Because I've got ideas.
[ A soft hum of appreciation for the way she touched him, barely more than a deep reverberation in his chest and throat as his own hand trailed up her side, touch light to mirror hers. When he felt her ribcage under his palm and knew he could shift his palm to her front to make this a lot more overtly sexual, though, he shifted it to her back instead, and let it glide gently back down to rest on her lower back, just above the curve of her ass.
Lips nearly touching hers, Sam merely angled his head, offered his mouth to her for the taking. If she so pleased. ]
Yeah. Anything at all.
[ Sam was aware that Natasha Romanoff was, at the end of the day, a dangerous person for him to hand himself over to like this. But they already skipped other pleasantries and started this of with her desire to sit on his face, so why be shy now? No need to hide the fact that he was at her disposal, just like that, and happily so, for however she wanted to have him. ]
Lips nearly touching hers, Sam merely angled his head, offered his mouth to her for the taking. If she so pleased. ]
Yeah. Anything at all.
[ Sam was aware that Natasha Romanoff was, at the end of the day, a dangerous person for him to hand himself over to like this. But they already skipped other pleasantries and started this of with her desire to sit on his face, so why be shy now? No need to hide the fact that he was at her disposal, just like that, and happily so, for however she wanted to have him. ]
[Dangerous though she might be, the likelihood of her putting him in a life threatening situation was fairly slim. At least not while they were in her townhouse with two bottles of wine at their disposal. They'd gone down some bumpy roads over the years in the service of protecting the planet. But that seemed like a different kind of danger. Everything she had in mind for the evening was purely recreational. Especially now that they'd crossed the threshold and traded the very tantalizing maybe for an absolute yes.]
Good answer.
[There was a hint of playful humor in her voice. Her fingers idly undid the top two buttons on his shirt. Finally, she tipped her chin up to kiss him, her lips parting against his as her hand slid around to curl around the back of his neck. Slowly, but unmistakably full of intention.]
Good answer.
[There was a hint of playful humor in her voice. Her fingers idly undid the top two buttons on his shirt. Finally, she tipped her chin up to kiss him, her lips parting against his as her hand slid around to curl around the back of his neck. Slowly, but unmistakably full of intention.]
[ There's no one at the pier, at this hour, the only company being the shy wind and the stars. James uncaps the beer bottle and leans against the railing, swirling it around, watching the shadows dapple on the water. There's another close by, if Sam wants to leave the comfort of the four walls behind them and the laughter of children, but between that and what's out here he's got a finger on the pulse. He knows the choice. ]
[ Sure enough. Footsteps, and the squeeze of lightness. The Winter does not forgive nor does he go away, but there are times when there's a ravine between them, and that cold bastard is too far away to touch. ]
[ James says, without looking, ]
That one's yours.
[ He shifts, absently, even as he notices how Sam fits into the space next to him. ]
So. [ A beat, and a heh. ] You got your speech all practiced for tomorrow?
I believe the adage is that a cat lands on its feet.
[ Wakanda's war dogs have their teeth everywhere. Especially here, there are no less than three, embedded in various operations, in the best places to strike. Here is where nearly all the reputable fences work, where all the contacts are made, where the money changes hands. No one is closer to the identity of the Power Broker than them, but for some reason that man is still elusive. ]
[ The elevator dings open, and soft music drifts out of it. ]
This way, please.
[ Wakanda's war dogs have their teeth everywhere. Especially here, there are no less than three, embedded in various operations, in the best places to strike. Here is where nearly all the reputable fences work, where all the contacts are made, where the money changes hands. No one is closer to the identity of the Power Broker than them, but for some reason that man is still elusive. ]
[ The elevator dings open, and soft music drifts out of it. ]
This way, please.
[To say things haven't gone to plan over the past week would be an understatement. Between their trip to New York to collect his (miniscule) belongings, and his dislike of crowds in the lead up to the holiday season, it should have only been a brief trip. A quick in and out. Half a day tops so he could finally make his move to Delacroix official.
And yet, as seems to be the case when it comes to the two of them, those hours had stretched out. The knowledge of Captain America stepping off a plane at LaGuardia airport had spread like wildfire. And by the time the two of them had made it to Bucky's apartment, the paparazzi were already lying in wait. Even having the Winter Soldier staring them down hadn't been enough of a warning to get them to back off. Hadn't kept them from snapping pictures and yelling questions out with a varying degree of insensitivity. And even once they'd made it to the apartment, it hadn't kept rogue reporters or even Bucky's (former) neighbors from knocking the entire time they'd been there.
So. That'd been fun to deal with.
Naturally though, that had been the easy part. Ignoring those knocks while he'd gathered together the few clothes that were still sitting in the closet. While the two of them began packing up the barely used contents of his kitchen. It's only when the knocks had become a call, and the call had turned in to an invite, that they'd finally accepted the fact that their stay would be extended. That even carrying the shield isn't enough to protect them from being dragged in to the public eye once more.
Rogers: The musical.
The few days they'd been given to prepare had been both too long and not enough. For Bucky, at least, he'd spent the entire time fighting the urge to run. Had wanted nothing more than to put space between them and New York. It'd only been the knowledge of just how bad it would look for Sam if he opted not to go that kept him from following that instinct. (Well, that, and the unspoken promise of sex each night the two of them shared the previously unused bed in his apartment.) Sure, the offer had only been extended to him under the proviso of Sam attending the premiere. But he knows it wouldn't look good for the man if his own partner refused to attend.
So attend, he had. The two of them having to dress up for the event was an additional step that Bucky wasn't too happy to have to undertake. Though seeing Sam dressed to the nines was a definite motivator in him agreeing to head out to buy a suit anyway. And being able to get an upfront view of Sam getting the limelight he deserved as they'd made their way in to the theatre that night had been worth it. Worth the discomfort of it all. Even worth fending off the occasional questions that'd been directed towards him when Sam's attention had already been taken up by another camera.
Whether it was worth sitting through the entire performance or not though... Yeah, he's undecided on that.
Yet somehow they had. They'd managed to keep their commentary contained. Had hidden their laughter behind tight lips and coughs. And even once the curtain had closed and the applause had died down, they somehow kept it together long enough to accept the invitation to the afterparty.
Which Bucky has quickly come to regret.
He knows, of course, that as new as his relationship with Sam is, neither of them are the type to play around. That even as they continue to feel out how this thing between them works, they aren't going to risk hurting one another by looking elsewhere. Their relationship isn't public yet, of course. Not hidden, but not shouted from the rooftops. But seeing Natasha's actress curl her hand around Sam's arm, seeing her understudy staring adoringly at the man- It takes everything in him to keep Bucky from storming across the room and claiming what's his. Which is a task made that much more difficult as the woman claiming to be the set designer starts to laugh airily at something Sam says.
Time for another double whiskey, it seems.]
And yet, as seems to be the case when it comes to the two of them, those hours had stretched out. The knowledge of Captain America stepping off a plane at LaGuardia airport had spread like wildfire. And by the time the two of them had made it to Bucky's apartment, the paparazzi were already lying in wait. Even having the Winter Soldier staring them down hadn't been enough of a warning to get them to back off. Hadn't kept them from snapping pictures and yelling questions out with a varying degree of insensitivity. And even once they'd made it to the apartment, it hadn't kept rogue reporters or even Bucky's (former) neighbors from knocking the entire time they'd been there.
So. That'd been fun to deal with.
Naturally though, that had been the easy part. Ignoring those knocks while he'd gathered together the few clothes that were still sitting in the closet. While the two of them began packing up the barely used contents of his kitchen. It's only when the knocks had become a call, and the call had turned in to an invite, that they'd finally accepted the fact that their stay would be extended. That even carrying the shield isn't enough to protect them from being dragged in to the public eye once more.
Rogers: The musical.
The few days they'd been given to prepare had been both too long and not enough. For Bucky, at least, he'd spent the entire time fighting the urge to run. Had wanted nothing more than to put space between them and New York. It'd only been the knowledge of just how bad it would look for Sam if he opted not to go that kept him from following that instinct. (Well, that, and the unspoken promise of sex each night the two of them shared the previously unused bed in his apartment.) Sure, the offer had only been extended to him under the proviso of Sam attending the premiere. But he knows it wouldn't look good for the man if his own partner refused to attend.
So attend, he had. The two of them having to dress up for the event was an additional step that Bucky wasn't too happy to have to undertake. Though seeing Sam dressed to the nines was a definite motivator in him agreeing to head out to buy a suit anyway. And being able to get an upfront view of Sam getting the limelight he deserved as they'd made their way in to the theatre that night had been worth it. Worth the discomfort of it all. Even worth fending off the occasional questions that'd been directed towards him when Sam's attention had already been taken up by another camera.
Whether it was worth sitting through the entire performance or not though... Yeah, he's undecided on that.
Yet somehow they had. They'd managed to keep their commentary contained. Had hidden their laughter behind tight lips and coughs. And even once the curtain had closed and the applause had died down, they somehow kept it together long enough to accept the invitation to the afterparty.
Which Bucky has quickly come to regret.
He knows, of course, that as new as his relationship with Sam is, neither of them are the type to play around. That even as they continue to feel out how this thing between them works, they aren't going to risk hurting one another by looking elsewhere. Their relationship isn't public yet, of course. Not hidden, but not shouted from the rooftops. But seeing Natasha's actress curl her hand around Sam's arm, seeing her understudy staring adoringly at the man- It takes everything in him to keep Bucky from storming across the room and claiming what's his. Which is a task made that much more difficult as the woman claiming to be the set designer starts to laugh airily at something Sam says.
Time for another double whiskey, it seems.]
Pain.
It's the first thing that registers, always. When his synapses start sluggishly firing again, pain is always the first thing that takes conscious shape and lets him know that he's thawing. That the Red Falcon is being deployed. And then, along with the pain, there is the thrill of knowing he's wanted and needed and about to be unleashed into the skies like a bird of prey and wings of...
Pain.
He stumbles forwards, unable to keep himself upright. The wings are connected to his screaming muscles in sheer agony, and it means that right after thawing, when he hardly has control over his limbs, it's not unusual for his wings to try and unfurl from the metal slats on his back. It's why his arms are crossed over his torso, and he's tightly bound by a harness made of metal bands. Too many scientists and handlers sliced to ribbons by sheer accident. Too many wounds he dealt himself with razor sharp metal edges flailing in sheer agony without conscious control.
Talk about a flight risk.
He doesn't see the hands that grab at him, haul him out of his cryo tank and begin dragging him physically, uncaring for the fact that his body isn't yet obeying him. Any scrapes and bruises will heal long before he's delivered for the mission, after all. He doesn't see them - he can't hear them either. They put a cowl over his head that covers his eyes and ears. He thinks he screams, sometimes, when their treatment gets rough - but he doesn't hear it. The sensory deprivation holds fully.
Some part of him, some synapses in his conscious mind that haven't been fried in their attempts to dehumanize him, provide context for that. He's not meant to feel human. he's meant to feel like the tool they treat him as. They're trying to make him imprint on the first person he sees, be it as asset to handler or pet to master. They don't care what level it gets to. They think they've fried the Red Falcon's mind enough that he considers himself as subhuman as they do.
Sometimes, it's too easy to go along with that. To shut off the parts of himself that feel more than pain. The parts of himself that do more than become a weapon aimed by someone else.
He hits a metal slab, is forced down onto it. Hands prodding, examining. They're making sure there's no damage caused by cryo. The Red Falcon thinks he screams again when fingers dig into the metal slats on his back, feeling for the wings to see if there's damage. They won't deliver him for the job if he's not fit to do it, and he flinches from every touch, knows he snarls, knows the metal harness is all that keeps him from slicing everyone around him apart. His mind skitters ahead, to the comfort he knows to come. To blue eyes and touches that make him shiver for different reasons.
There's only one person who can and will requisition the Red Falcon as an asset for missions. They don't dare send him on other missions, the Red Falcon knows that. They can't risk damaging or losing him, when he's the Winter Soldier's favourite possession. He's asset, tool and reward rolled into one, something they can utilise in keeping the Soldier compliant.
There's no one who can wield the Red Falcon the way the Winter Soldier can. Hydra doesn't care how the Winter Soldier chooses to use the Red Falcon - they only care about results. And they get results, the two of them.
He's dragged to another adjoining room, eventually. Pushed down onto his knees, still bound and naked. A weapon presented to the Winter Soldier for inspection. It's a hand off - the Solder is now in charge of the Red Falcon, in readying himself for the mission, in handling him. The Red Falcon still can't hear or see him - but he knows the next touch will be his regardless, knows the next touch he won't flinch from. Knows when the cowl is lifted off, he will be met with blue eyes, blank in he way his own are blank, pained in the way his own are. A gaze so sweet it makes compliance deceptively easy.
Hydra's got it all wrong. He didn't imprint on the Winter Soldier. Their bond isn't that benign. No - he belongs to the Winter Soldier on a level much deeper than that.
And so the Red Falcon waits for his Winter Soldier to set him free, to give him purpose and direction, to give him warmth after the ice.
It's the first thing that registers, always. When his synapses start sluggishly firing again, pain is always the first thing that takes conscious shape and lets him know that he's thawing. That the Red Falcon is being deployed. And then, along with the pain, there is the thrill of knowing he's wanted and needed and about to be unleashed into the skies like a bird of prey and wings of...
Pain.
He stumbles forwards, unable to keep himself upright. The wings are connected to his screaming muscles in sheer agony, and it means that right after thawing, when he hardly has control over his limbs, it's not unusual for his wings to try and unfurl from the metal slats on his back. It's why his arms are crossed over his torso, and he's tightly bound by a harness made of metal bands. Too many scientists and handlers sliced to ribbons by sheer accident. Too many wounds he dealt himself with razor sharp metal edges flailing in sheer agony without conscious control.
Talk about a flight risk.
He doesn't see the hands that grab at him, haul him out of his cryo tank and begin dragging him physically, uncaring for the fact that his body isn't yet obeying him. Any scrapes and bruises will heal long before he's delivered for the mission, after all. He doesn't see them - he can't hear them either. They put a cowl over his head that covers his eyes and ears. He thinks he screams, sometimes, when their treatment gets rough - but he doesn't hear it. The sensory deprivation holds fully.
Some part of him, some synapses in his conscious mind that haven't been fried in their attempts to dehumanize him, provide context for that. He's not meant to feel human. he's meant to feel like the tool they treat him as. They're trying to make him imprint on the first person he sees, be it as asset to handler or pet to master. They don't care what level it gets to. They think they've fried the Red Falcon's mind enough that he considers himself as subhuman as they do.
Sometimes, it's too easy to go along with that. To shut off the parts of himself that feel more than pain. The parts of himself that do more than become a weapon aimed by someone else.
He hits a metal slab, is forced down onto it. Hands prodding, examining. They're making sure there's no damage caused by cryo. The Red Falcon thinks he screams again when fingers dig into the metal slats on his back, feeling for the wings to see if there's damage. They won't deliver him for the job if he's not fit to do it, and he flinches from every touch, knows he snarls, knows the metal harness is all that keeps him from slicing everyone around him apart. His mind skitters ahead, to the comfort he knows to come. To blue eyes and touches that make him shiver for different reasons.
There's only one person who can and will requisition the Red Falcon as an asset for missions. They don't dare send him on other missions, the Red Falcon knows that. They can't risk damaging or losing him, when he's the Winter Soldier's favourite possession. He's asset, tool and reward rolled into one, something they can utilise in keeping the Soldier compliant.
There's no one who can wield the Red Falcon the way the Winter Soldier can. Hydra doesn't care how the Winter Soldier chooses to use the Red Falcon - they only care about results. And they get results, the two of them.
He's dragged to another adjoining room, eventually. Pushed down onto his knees, still bound and naked. A weapon presented to the Winter Soldier for inspection. It's a hand off - the Solder is now in charge of the Red Falcon, in readying himself for the mission, in handling him. The Red Falcon still can't hear or see him - but he knows the next touch will be his regardless, knows the next touch he won't flinch from. Knows when the cowl is lifted off, he will be met with blue eyes, blank in he way his own are blank, pained in the way his own are. A gaze so sweet it makes compliance deceptively easy.
Hydra's got it all wrong. He didn't imprint on the Winter Soldier. Their bond isn't that benign. No - he belongs to the Winter Soldier on a level much deeper than that.
And so the Red Falcon waits for his Winter Soldier to set him free, to give him purpose and direction, to give him warmth after the ice.
With the enhancements they’ve grafted into the former airman, their latest reclamation, few of the HYDRA personnel are willing to wrangle him and those razor-sharp wings when he’s not restrained. There’s been too much blood shed on the cold metal floors of this facility. They can sedate him, bind those wings, bring him to his knees with jolts of electricity— but all things told, it’s simply easier to have the Soldier handle it. He’s quick and efficient and strong, and can brute-force manhandle the other asset into line when necessary. He heals fast enough that the cuts and nicks from those wings don’t bother him; or if they do, he’s quiet enough about it.
So. They always wake up the Winter Soldier first, but then his partner is usually close behind. The memories of their missions are occasionally scrubbed — leaving them blank slates, unable to give any details if they’re ever captured by enemies — but the memories of each other remain surprisingly solid, a steady bedrock beneath these haunted days and nights.
The Soldier’s metal hand (crisp and cool) digs into the cowl, tugs it loose with a delicacy which one might not have expected from the iron fist of HYDRA, and then he’s looking down at the other man. His expression is carefully blank — to anyone else, it would look neutral — but, oh, there. The Falcon knows his subtle tics well enough by now that he can see that slight dip to the Soldier’s chin, the smallest nod of acknowledgment and personal greeting.
Hello.
The cowl still crumpled in his hand, he runs his metal index finger along the line of the other man’s jaw. Not tender, precisely — too many people are still watching, a couple guards hovering outside the door in case the handoff goes ugly — but it’s as much as he can get away with.
“Sokol?” he says by way of prompt (“Falcon?”), the same way his own handlers wake him every time, drag him up from the ice every single time, waiting for the call-and-response.
So. They always wake up the Winter Soldier first, but then his partner is usually close behind. The memories of their missions are occasionally scrubbed — leaving them blank slates, unable to give any details if they’re ever captured by enemies — but the memories of each other remain surprisingly solid, a steady bedrock beneath these haunted days and nights.
The Soldier’s metal hand (crisp and cool) digs into the cowl, tugs it loose with a delicacy which one might not have expected from the iron fist of HYDRA, and then he’s looking down at the other man. His expression is carefully blank — to anyone else, it would look neutral — but, oh, there. The Falcon knows his subtle tics well enough by now that he can see that slight dip to the Soldier’s chin, the smallest nod of acknowledgment and personal greeting.
Hello.
The cowl still crumpled in his hand, he runs his metal index finger along the line of the other man’s jaw. Not tender, precisely — too many people are still watching, a couple guards hovering outside the door in case the handoff goes ugly — but it’s as much as he can get away with.
“Sokol?” he says by way of prompt (“Falcon?”), the same way his own handlers wake him every time, drag him up from the ice every single time, waiting for the call-and-response.
( Soldat?
Ready to comply. )
[ The air feels charged with whatever mood's driving them onwards. And when Sam allows himself to think, to reflect, to be healthy, he knows exactly why they're like this, why the door of the hotel room Sharon's swung for them is barely closed before they're on each other. The need for closeness and release both physical and emotional isn't surprising at all, but given what happened Sam had honestly worried Bucky would treat him like something fragile. Instead they nearly tumble, nearly break a lamp or two, all teeth and tongues and greedy hands.
Sam's still in a world of hurt, but the on call medics cleared him. Poor guys - Sam had had to talk a young looking emergency responders through how to free Captain America and Sergeant Barnes themselves from the wreckage of his wingsuit and check them both over, at Sam's insistence. Knew Bucky was fine, knew that he himself had taken the brunt of the impact after the fall, but also couldn't focus on himself. It's the pararescue in him - the way he just wants to make sure other people are fine, whether he himself is bleeding out or not.
He's fine. Hey're both fine. Except in all the ways in which they aren't, can't be after this close a call. The fact is Bucky might not have survived the fall, and they both know it. The serum doesn't make him impossible to kill, and that... that was a long drop right there. Much higher than what Bucky leaps without issue. And Sam... well, Sam knows his guy, doesn't he? That's why they're here, why they go on missions and then go home together, why they spar and kiss and hold space for each other before anything else. So Sam... doesn't know all the details, but knows enough. And Sam, who has lost too many people, and who wouldn't survive losing another partner and lover to a fall specifically, couldn't let Bucky, who has suffered too many freefalls and never got to be saved from them, hit the ground on the chance that he'd probably be fine.
Bad enough that he fell to begin with. Bad enough that for all his speed in the air, Sam didn't catch up too him until the ground was an inevitability, not a mere looming threat. He remembers the split second decision. Reaching for Bucky, reaching around Bucky.
The pararescue motto is 'The things we do so others may live'. Sam's always been like that. He will always be like that. And so he's between Bucky and the ground when they hit, their combined weight and momentum heavily damaging the wings - they'll be fine, vibranium is sturdy, it's mostly the electronics that need fixing. So for all intents an purposes, the wings broke, and Sam almost broke, and Bucky didn't.
It's a small miracle Sam survived, and yet all he can think when he looks at Bucky is 'I caught you' and 'You're alive, you're alive, you're alive', and he wants Bucky so deep they won't know where each of them ends and the other begins, wants so much it hurts and makes him dizzy, and doesn't have the words to ask for everything he needs, so he's just tongue and teeth and desparate hands, trying to get more, more, more, because they're alive, they're alive, they're alive. ]
Sam's still in a world of hurt, but the on call medics cleared him. Poor guys - Sam had had to talk a young looking emergency responders through how to free Captain America and Sergeant Barnes themselves from the wreckage of his wingsuit and check them both over, at Sam's insistence. Knew Bucky was fine, knew that he himself had taken the brunt of the impact after the fall, but also couldn't focus on himself. It's the pararescue in him - the way he just wants to make sure other people are fine, whether he himself is bleeding out or not.
He's fine. Hey're both fine. Except in all the ways in which they aren't, can't be after this close a call. The fact is Bucky might not have survived the fall, and they both know it. The serum doesn't make him impossible to kill, and that... that was a long drop right there. Much higher than what Bucky leaps without issue. And Sam... well, Sam knows his guy, doesn't he? That's why they're here, why they go on missions and then go home together, why they spar and kiss and hold space for each other before anything else. So Sam... doesn't know all the details, but knows enough. And Sam, who has lost too many people, and who wouldn't survive losing another partner and lover to a fall specifically, couldn't let Bucky, who has suffered too many freefalls and never got to be saved from them, hit the ground on the chance that he'd probably be fine.
Bad enough that he fell to begin with. Bad enough that for all his speed in the air, Sam didn't catch up too him until the ground was an inevitability, not a mere looming threat. He remembers the split second decision. Reaching for Bucky, reaching around Bucky.
The pararescue motto is 'The things we do so others may live'. Sam's always been like that. He will always be like that. And so he's between Bucky and the ground when they hit, their combined weight and momentum heavily damaging the wings - they'll be fine, vibranium is sturdy, it's mostly the electronics that need fixing. So for all intents an purposes, the wings broke, and Sam almost broke, and Bucky didn't.
It's a small miracle Sam survived, and yet all he can think when he looks at Bucky is 'I caught you' and 'You're alive, you're alive, you're alive', and he wants Bucky so deep they won't know where each of them ends and the other begins, wants so much it hurts and makes him dizzy, and doesn't have the words to ask for everything he needs, so he's just tongue and teeth and desparate hands, trying to get more, more, more, because they're alive, they're alive, they're alive. ]
[ It starts, like so many things do between them, with some bit of inane banter or other while working on the house. No, not Sarah's house - the house. Theirs. It's a bit of a fixer-upper, a bit of a situationship that they're still figuring out, same as so much else in their lives. And much like whatever's going on between them, it's much more solid than those vague terms might make you guys. Solid foundations, just gotta work on the fine details.
They work on the house in little bursts between missions that take them everywhere and nowhere at all. In between Sam losing it while training Torres on the wings, because all he sees for a few days are the charred chunks of Riley's body being scattered over the desert. In between Bucky's near sleepless nights. In between both of them trying to make the stray cat skirting the edge of their property to fall in love with them, damnit. In between learning to like and love one another, in between growing past what they each thought they could be on so many levels.
It starts, like so many things do, with Sam making some dumb joke or another. He doesn't even remember it later - it was the dead of the night, he'd been half drunk with sleep deprivation and fading adrenaline while they both tried to figure out how to install a cat door without murdering each other or the cat or the door. Something about revolving doors turning into a lewd joke about sex in the 40s turning into a joke about Sam's assets turning into a joke about if Bucky weren't so obviously gone on Sam's ass, he might notice that Sam would win any wet t-shirt contest, too, hands down, and it just devolves into dumb commentary on Sam's tits later, and on Bucky's taste (and lack thereof). Halfway between home renovations turning into christening yet another surface of their growing, evolving home, Sam had teased about giving Bucky access to way too much skin, when surely a man from the 40s was all about a brief glimpse of wrists and ankles. Somewhere in between kisses, he'd caught the scoff, the allusion to Sam mixing up his eras, to tantalizing underwear. Somewhere in between kisses and touches had been a tease that maybe Bucky would appreciate Sam's assets more if they were presented in lace.
It's just silly, it's dumb. It's a joke. And yet a few weeks later, when Sam walks into their living room to find Bucky in the new armchair and an ostentiously wrapped gift on the coffee table, Sam's forgotten all about the exchange. Just cocks an eyebrow. ]
What are you apologizing for?
[ Because he knows damn well that he didn't forget some special occasion - Sam is nothing if not meticulous about his calendar these days - so the only logical conclusion must be that Bucky did something that merits buying Sam's good will.
Obviously. ]
They work on the house in little bursts between missions that take them everywhere and nowhere at all. In between Sam losing it while training Torres on the wings, because all he sees for a few days are the charred chunks of Riley's body being scattered over the desert. In between Bucky's near sleepless nights. In between both of them trying to make the stray cat skirting the edge of their property to fall in love with them, damnit. In between learning to like and love one another, in between growing past what they each thought they could be on so many levels.
It starts, like so many things do, with Sam making some dumb joke or another. He doesn't even remember it later - it was the dead of the night, he'd been half drunk with sleep deprivation and fading adrenaline while they both tried to figure out how to install a cat door without murdering each other or the cat or the door. Something about revolving doors turning into a lewd joke about sex in the 40s turning into a joke about Sam's assets turning into a joke about if Bucky weren't so obviously gone on Sam's ass, he might notice that Sam would win any wet t-shirt contest, too, hands down, and it just devolves into dumb commentary on Sam's tits later, and on Bucky's taste (and lack thereof). Halfway between home renovations turning into christening yet another surface of their growing, evolving home, Sam had teased about giving Bucky access to way too much skin, when surely a man from the 40s was all about a brief glimpse of wrists and ankles. Somewhere in between kisses, he'd caught the scoff, the allusion to Sam mixing up his eras, to tantalizing underwear. Somewhere in between kisses and touches had been a tease that maybe Bucky would appreciate Sam's assets more if they were presented in lace.
It's just silly, it's dumb. It's a joke. And yet a few weeks later, when Sam walks into their living room to find Bucky in the new armchair and an ostentiously wrapped gift on the coffee table, Sam's forgotten all about the exchange. Just cocks an eyebrow. ]
What are you apologizing for?
[ Because he knows damn well that he didn't forget some special occasion - Sam is nothing if not meticulous about his calendar these days - so the only logical conclusion must be that Bucky did something that merits buying Sam's good will.
Obviously. ]
Oh, this isn't an apology.
[Bucky sits confidently, sort of confidently, actually a little smug with his feet wide and planted and leaning back in the chair, right up until Sam comes in. That's when it hits him that his joke might be a little stupid. What if Sam takes it wrong? What if it's not as funny in real life as it was in his head when he ordered this stuff online.
It had seemed hi-fucking-larious when he was shopping online.
What if Sam doesn't get it?
He tries to push aside that thought. Actual worst case scenario? Probably Sam throws the box back at Bucky's head and he actually owes the other man a real apology. Fairly low stakes, considering how often they deal with things that are life and death.
Before he can lose his nerve, he tosses the box right at Sam. His aim is good.]
Open it.
[Should he say something else? Make more of a quip? He considers it, but he can't quite come up with the right thing to say in the moment. Instead he shrugs.]
Unless a guy isn't allowed to get a gift for his boyfriend these days?
[Bucky sits confidently, sort of confidently, actually a little smug with his feet wide and planted and leaning back in the chair, right up until Sam comes in. That's when it hits him that his joke might be a little stupid. What if Sam takes it wrong? What if it's not as funny in real life as it was in his head when he ordered this stuff online.
It had seemed hi-fucking-larious when he was shopping online.
What if Sam doesn't get it?
He tries to push aside that thought. Actual worst case scenario? Probably Sam throws the box back at Bucky's head and he actually owes the other man a real apology. Fairly low stakes, considering how often they deal with things that are life and death.
Before he can lose his nerve, he tosses the box right at Sam. His aim is good.]
Open it.
[Should he say something else? Make more of a quip? He considers it, but he can't quite come up with the right thing to say in the moment. Instead he shrugs.]
Unless a guy isn't allowed to get a gift for his boyfriend these days?
[ Sam's catch is just as smooth - he feels like he sees the throw coming before it happens, likes to think it's because of how in-sync they are. But then, there's always the possibility that Bucky's poker face is just that shitty. He scoffs either way, although the way he eyes drop to the floor and his lips split into a wide open smile for a moment belies the attempt to sound dismissive. Someone's a touch bashful, if no less suspicious of the random gesture. ]
Boyfriend? Please, I hardly know you.
[ They'll still go at it sometimes, vehemently denying the term partner, insisting to Sarah that they're practically strangers with nothing in common while they're over at hers for family dinners, comfortably in each other's space.
Now, Sam is still suspicious about this. Feels like he can see right through Bucky's feigned nonchalance, the man-spreading confidence, to some nervous energy underneath. The question is whether that's 'I think I'm oh so hilarious and about to be insufferable to my poor, sweet, sexy boyfriend' kinda energy or 'I actually did something nice and can't help but look shifty as shit about it' energy remains to be seen. Sam flips the gift box over in his hand once, twice, contemplative. Decides, ultimately, that he's doomed either way, because Bucky's actual super power is batting the lashes of his stupidly blue eyes and turning Sam into a full idiot. So he might as well throw all caution to the wind and jump. Clicks his tongue and walks up, decides that depending on whether he wants to kiss or punt Bucky the best vantage point for whatever reaction he'll have is right in the man's space - so Sam ignores the perfectly good couch in order to plant himself in Bucky's lap. Shakes the box slightly before he starts pulling at the ribbon slowly, just to draw it out a little. ]
You know you don't have to get me anything, right? But... thank you. [ And because he can't help but add some lip whenever he's genuine: ] Still - I want you to know that if this a captain america branded apron, I'll feed you to the oldest, meanest alligator I can find.
[ Then he rips the package open - and stares without comprehending for a moment, before he dryly comments with no small amount of confusion: ]
Well. It's not Cap merch, I guess...?
Boyfriend? Please, I hardly know you.
[ They'll still go at it sometimes, vehemently denying the term partner, insisting to Sarah that they're practically strangers with nothing in common while they're over at hers for family dinners, comfortably in each other's space.
Now, Sam is still suspicious about this. Feels like he can see right through Bucky's feigned nonchalance, the man-spreading confidence, to some nervous energy underneath. The question is whether that's 'I think I'm oh so hilarious and about to be insufferable to my poor, sweet, sexy boyfriend' kinda energy or 'I actually did something nice and can't help but look shifty as shit about it' energy remains to be seen. Sam flips the gift box over in his hand once, twice, contemplative. Decides, ultimately, that he's doomed either way, because Bucky's actual super power is batting the lashes of his stupidly blue eyes and turning Sam into a full idiot. So he might as well throw all caution to the wind and jump. Clicks his tongue and walks up, decides that depending on whether he wants to kiss or punt Bucky the best vantage point for whatever reaction he'll have is right in the man's space - so Sam ignores the perfectly good couch in order to plant himself in Bucky's lap. Shakes the box slightly before he starts pulling at the ribbon slowly, just to draw it out a little. ]
You know you don't have to get me anything, right? But... thank you. [ And because he can't help but add some lip whenever he's genuine: ] Still - I want you to know that if this a captain america branded apron, I'll feed you to the oldest, meanest alligator I can find.
[ Then he rips the package open - and stares without comprehending for a moment, before he dryly comments with no small amount of confusion: ]
Well. It's not Cap merch, I guess...?
He sees, and is seen immediately.
There's a moment in which the gaze that meets the Winter Soldier is nothing but wild and feral, in which any onlookers might doubt that there is a shred of humanity left in the man. But the Soldier knows him. And so while the Falcon straightens, as if pulled up by a string, searching the blue sky in those piercing eyes of the Soldier, the Soldier will be able to see how the wild, wounded thing they give him settles into something sharp and self-aware, how the slumped body takes on a ready and waiting posture even as a long exhale relaxes the pained tension in the Falcon's shoulders.
The way he tilts his head slightly is nothing short of bird like, the sharp angles of his facial feature casting stark shadows in the harsh lighting. If the head tilt leans his face a little into that touch, no onlooker would be ever the wiser.
But they know. The two of them, they can tell. And it's enough.
The Falcon feels like himself again by the time the Soldier speaks, drinking up the first sound he's heard, eyes transfixed upon the first thing he's been allowed to see. At Sokol, he nods in the affirmative, and then echoes the call-and-response words:
"Ready to comply."
There's a strange lilt to his voice in Russian, the soft remnants of some accent nothing and no one has gotten out of him so far. It displeases Hydra, this tether to the Falcon's origin. But it proves a stubborn thing, that slight drawl in his voice that perhaps he could trace to his roots were he left to fly and search the world for the scattered idea of identity he no longer feels in need of.
For now, he simply awaits instruction, eyes not wavering from the Soldier even as the Falcon becomes something entirely able to bend to the Soldier's will.
There's a moment in which the gaze that meets the Winter Soldier is nothing but wild and feral, in which any onlookers might doubt that there is a shred of humanity left in the man. But the Soldier knows him. And so while the Falcon straightens, as if pulled up by a string, searching the blue sky in those piercing eyes of the Soldier, the Soldier will be able to see how the wild, wounded thing they give him settles into something sharp and self-aware, how the slumped body takes on a ready and waiting posture even as a long exhale relaxes the pained tension in the Falcon's shoulders.
The way he tilts his head slightly is nothing short of bird like, the sharp angles of his facial feature casting stark shadows in the harsh lighting. If the head tilt leans his face a little into that touch, no onlooker would be ever the wiser.
But they know. The two of them, they can tell. And it's enough.
The Falcon feels like himself again by the time the Soldier speaks, drinking up the first sound he's heard, eyes transfixed upon the first thing he's been allowed to see. At Sokol, he nods in the affirmative, and then echoes the call-and-response words:
"Ready to comply."
There's a strange lilt to his voice in Russian, the soft remnants of some accent nothing and no one has gotten out of him so far. It displeases Hydra, this tether to the Falcon's origin. But it proves a stubborn thing, that slight drawl in his voice that perhaps he could trace to his roots were he left to fly and search the world for the scattered idea of identity he no longer feels in need of.
For now, he simply awaits instruction, eyes not wavering from the Soldier even as the Falcon becomes something entirely able to bend to the Soldier's will.
Nothing wrong with the apron we have. As long as Captain America's wearing it, it's a Captain America apron.
[And getting Sam wearing that—and only that—has been a particular goal of Bucky's. But that's not for here or there, not to day, and not a fantasy that he should be indulging when Sam goes and puts himself bodily in Bucky's lap.
His vibranium arm slips around the other man's back almost automatically, supporting him while he unwraps the gift.
His adam's apple bobs a little as he wonders again if this was a good idea, but too late to pull out now. When he sees the contents, smooth silk stockings and lace and mesh garter belt, panties to match, he still finds it pretty damn funny.]
What? I thought you were the one talking up and down about how good you'd look in some fancy underwear.
[Is that exactly how the conversation went? Is Bucky taking comments out of context?
Absolutely.]
You haven't changed your mind about your "assets" have you?
[And getting Sam wearing that—and only that—has been a particular goal of Bucky's. But that's not for here or there, not to day, and not a fantasy that he should be indulging when Sam goes and puts himself bodily in Bucky's lap.
His vibranium arm slips around the other man's back almost automatically, supporting him while he unwraps the gift.
His adam's apple bobs a little as he wonders again if this was a good idea, but too late to pull out now. When he sees the contents, smooth silk stockings and lace and mesh garter belt, panties to match, he still finds it pretty damn funny.]
What? I thought you were the one talking up and down about how good you'd look in some fancy underwear.
[Is that exactly how the conversation went? Is Bucky taking comments out of context?
Absolutely.]
You haven't changed your mind about your "assets" have you?
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