Chapter Text
Bucky doesn’t think much of it at the beginning. He doesn’t even know it is the beginning, has other shit to worry about, other beginnings. New on the team, new to himself, to trust, to sleep that isn’t just blackouts, and too new to being told he’s not in danger of slipping back into Winter Soldier, round two, and going under with Russian in his ears.
“Hey, big guy,” Natasha says, carefully stepping over the rubble and passing Bucky who has his gun drawn, not that it’d do anything against Hulk, but, yeah, during that mission Bucky’s new. “The sun’s getting low.”
A weird way to put down a monster, with words, that’s all Bucky thinks, since Bucky’s own monster is brought out with them instead. The difference between them is that Bruce's monster is big and green and out in the open, and Bucky is all knives and silence, and the one the team wouldn’t see or hear coming until it is too late.
(Irrational fear, according to Steve. But who is to say that triggers are really gone? Or that Bucky needs triggers.)
Maybe Bucky would’ve noticed it sooner, what’s going on there, but the first few months are survival, that’s what the weapon under his pillow is for, Bruce is brainy as shit when he’s not trashing tanks, and Bucky’s arm is a piece of Soviet tech made in the forties.
There are other offers.
“Hey, Metallica.” Tony, of course. “How about a free tune-up?”
And it’s not that Bucky doesn’t see it’s genuine under all the flash and jokes, but prefers, if he can help it, not to have Tony’s hands on that arm all the same.
So, Bruce.
Suits Bucky fine.
Bruce could turn and make this the last time anybody lays hands on Bucky, but doesn’t. Trusts himself to be around others, less indestructible people, and perhaps it makes zero sense, but for all the threat-assessment Bucky’s doing out of habit, he’s not that worried. Bruce is relaxed, soft, all physics and gentle derision. All things Bucky isn’t, alright, but it works.
Works even when others notice—not that—but what Bucky is not too slow to notice but admit to.
(“Third time this month,” Tony shakes his head, poking at Bucky’s nerves as Bruce pokes at the metal insides, where something has been shorting. “You’re gonna run us out of spare parts,” Tony continues. “Quit it with breaking yourself as an excuse to get down here,” Tony winks, seems delighted with himself and wanders off to the other side of the lab as Bucky frowns and mutters:
“Ain’t an excuse.”
Not a lie, but not the whole truth two years in and a warehouse of spare parts after joining the team.
“I know,” Bruce reassures him, twists something inside with his tool, and Bucky’s shoulders drop in relief when the shocks stop; that’s more like it.)
If it was obvious, someone would’ve said it.
Steve, maybe, his door and mouth are always open. Or Sam, whose mouth would’ve been better off staying closed when he encouraged Bucky to stop ‘pining’ and do something about it.
Instead, it’s Bruce who tells him, and with a sigh after leaning away when Bucky tries to kiss him.
It’s just them, a second mug pushed across the counter, and by now Bucky tracks every flick of Bruce’s eyes, every reserved smile curving at the corner of his mouth, and is driving himself mad with how much he wants this.
“Sorry,” the stool scrapes under Bruce as he pushes himself away after Bucky gets close enough to fog the edge of Bruce’s glasses. “Safer isn’t always safe,” Bruce adds. “I don’t—it’s not you, I also come with warnings on the label.”
Explains it, while Bucky feels like a fool for thinking he could just press forward, intent on pushing those glasses up onto Bruce’s head, as if after everything he’s done he gets to have it.
Should’ve known he’d end up here, drawn to the one man who could stop him if something went wrong without so much as a scratch to his person, and have it used against him.
It’s easier to see when Bucky follows Bruce’s lead and creates some distance.
Doesn’t see it ‘til they’re airborne, full team, Thor included, the space sparser, and Natasha’s knee pressing against Bucky’s.
Bruce used to sit close like that, though Bucky planted himself next to him barely a week in without consciously thinking that surely others feel safer when the monsters are in one corner, keeping each other in check. Regardless of whether Bucky’s making an elephant out of a fly now, what with being rejected, nobody questioned it at the time. Not Steve, sitting solid on Bucky’s other side like a protective bookend, and least of all Bucky.
There are other things to see now.
Used to be he’d drift down to the living room at night, drenched in cold sweat, with Bruce always there already and kind of sweet while pretending he was up for the sunrise.
He’d put the kettle on, offer Bucky some tea with that way of his, but for Bucky it was all about that quiet permission not to talk when he didn’t want to.
Now he stands in the hallway, hand on the doorframe, turns the other way, and forces himself to Steve’s floor.
Steve offers a drink, a seat on his couch and some half-remembered story from the old days—it’s all very well-meaning. Bucky can’t hear any of it, suspects it’s pointless, and misses the way Bruce never tried to talk him down and never made a big deal about Bucky using him as a security blanket or well-mean him into choosing to fuck off sooner than he wants to.
Bucky mopes for a bit, it is what it is. Sometimes you gotta wallow.
Tony helps.
Good people, under all the noise and the mouth. Finishes what he’s doing, tightens a bolt, does some magic with a skinny soldering tool, then flips the plate closed over Bucky’s arm with a hum. Doesn’t let Bucky get up straight after, but wipes his hands and drops some unsolicited Stark wisdom, leaving Bucky blinking at the wall.
He chews on it, makes two laps of the north wing, scares off some junior agents, and doesn’t know if Tony’s right. Doesn’t know if Tony even cares about being right. But all the same, ends up knocking on Bruce’s door.
Funny how this works out. They stand there a second, Bucky measuring the gap, and just as Bruce looks like he’s about to send him away, Bucky asks:
“That’s your only objection, Doc? Safety? Be honest, and don’t gotta let me down easy.”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, and Bucky might’ve not noticed he’s gotten into a habit of sticking around Bruce for a very particular reason, but this specific gesture… fuck it if there's not more to them than that.
“There’s no future with me.”
“Didn’t think I’d have any future at all. Shouldn’t even be here,” Bucky shrugs and invites himself in after Bruce doesn’t respond for too long.
“No, I can’t.” Bruce shakes his head, stepping back, but, shit, is actually blushing, won’t meet Bucky’s eye and is scratching the back of his neck. “You know, big guy.”
“Yeah,” Bucky sticks his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, too fucking nervous, and swings: “Think he’d object to just datin’?”
It’s good. Dating.
They’re not hiding, but not advertising either. Bruce doesn’t want to broadcast it, so they don’t, and Bucky can’t blame him for wanting nothing official and gladly skipping the group text. They just start eating together more often, which is apparently what dating is when you’re both terrible at it.
They’re at some hole-in-the-wall noodle shop, third night this week, when Bucky puts his hand on the table.
Not too bold, just knuckles grazing Bruce’s wrist while Bruce is saying something clever about the futility of New York City recycling programs. It’s supposed to be nothing. A non-gesture. It’s not. Bucky feels the nerves sparking all the way up his neck, and when Bruce glances down, Bucky pulls his hand back but leaves it there, on the table, palm up, in invitation.
Bruce takes it, his hand folding into Bucky’s, smiles a bit more, and the rest of the dinner is spent memorizing the weight and the total absence of panic. A hundred missions he remembers, more that he doesn’t, and not once has Bucky felt this exposed over a thing like this.
Their feet knock together under the table. Bucky nearly jerks away on reflex, doesn’t want to crowd him, then leaves it.
Bruce keeps talking, looks at him with warm eyes, and makes Bucky think that he can read his mind, gamma-brained bastard.
Problem is—well, maybe there’s no problem. Not unless you count Bucky Barnes and his idiot brain chemistry as a hazard. Can’t help but wonder, after a few months of it, if anyone in history has ever wanted anything this badly without making a federal case of it.
It’s not a crime to want it, but the innocent stuff’s enough until it’s not, and Bucky’s not asexual, his body working just fine, unfortunately for him and for every thick wall in the compound. Should keep quiet about it, told Bruce he would, but he’s got more than one hand that aches to be somewhere private.
He doesn’t put it that way, obviously. Just kind of lingers until Bruce looks up, always so patient, and checks, “Everything alright?”
“Just, uh… had a question.”
“Go on then.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty… happy, I guess. But do you even see me that way?”
Bruce’s eyebrows do a dance—surprised, maybe amused. He sets his notes aside and closes his eyes. Sighs. Bucky’d love nothing more than to hear that sigh in another context.
“Have you seen you?” Bruce mutters eventually. Bucky rubs at his jaw and feels like a moron.
Feels like even more of a moron when he, seriously, tries to get the big guy’s permission during a mission. Bucky doesn’t take it personally, but, fuck, it does hurt when his back meets the wall, and he should probably count himself lucky he gets to limp away covered in plaster.
“Nah, it wasn’t a ‘no’, just Hulk things,” Bucky murmurs, the words half-swallowed by the hush of late night and the way Bruce is blinking at him over the rim of his glasses. Probably was a no if you ask the Jolly Rage Machine, but it’s not like Bucky’s aiming for the green guy.
Kisses Bruce instead—he has always been reckless. Doesn’t do much, quick and careful, but it catches Bruce off guard; Bucky feels it in the way Bruce stiffens, startled, but then Bruce gives in, kisses back, and Bucky lets Bruce make the call, ready to let him back out if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
The glasses come off and get dumped—doesn’t matter where, Bucky’ll step on them later—and Bruce’s hands come up as they sit on the couch, movie still playing in the background, one gentle palm sliding into Bucky’s hair, the other cupping his jaw, fingertips tracing the line of Bucky’s stubble.
Bucky smiles into Bruce’s mouth. The sun’s been getting low on his libido for years now, could say since before broadband, didn’t think it would ever flare up again, not like this, and, well, there are things to consider, bodily fluids and all; Bruce is a walking worry of self-imposed boundaries.
They make do.
Kiss and kiss until Bruce is on top, awkward, knees bracketing Bucky’s hips, and Bucky grins up at him, all wolfish satisfaction as Bruce leans down and gives in further. Lips hungry, playing with Bucky’s hair with those wonderful surgeon fingers of his, and it’s Bruce who rocks down first, hips finding the rhythm before Bucky even knows he’s moving.
Been a while for Bucky, not just with a man. With anyone who didn’t look at him like he was a loaded gun with a sob story. But when he feels the hard line of Bruce’s dick and all the pressure, the need rolls over him, how could it not, hot and stupid, hips bucking up in time with Bruce’s, the two of them grinding quickly and clumsy. Sweat slicks Bruce’s neck after a while, and Bucky noses at it, tasting salt with his tongue, but is smart enough to keep away from his more primal urges.
It’s not just good. Better. Maybe not everything Bucky ever wanted, but nothing like the ugly, desperate shit his brain usually serves up. Bruce pants into Bucky’s ear the closer he gets, and Bucky’s right there with him, getting off on the drag of dick against dick through the clothes, jeans too tight, friction perfect. Bucky can’t stop himself, hips chasing after Bruce, legs shaking, fingers tangled in Bruce’s shirt, and then it’s all white noise, as it tends to go, coming in pants so sudden and helpless. Comes for ages too, so invested they do have to figure it out, just still hasn’t told him, and almost misses when Bruce gets there too, warm, wet mess inside Bucky’s own jeans, alright, a bit disgusting.
“I’d call it a success, what do you think?” Bucky laughs after, breathless and spent. Holds Bruce’s weight without an issue, and thumbs at Bruce’s slightly puffed up lower lip. Maybe ruins it a bit, the moment, but can’t resist it: “But tell me, love, what do you think his reaction will be when I ask him if you should top or bottom?”
(Believe it or not, when Bucky does check in with the big guy, a few more months and a lot of successes later, he gets a fist-bump, though he needs a full hydraulics replacement after.)