#ALSO. for anyone wondering what the fucked up shadow is that starts at the juncture of the teal sleeve-cap where its set into the armhole

[chitinleg]

got him off-balance!

[kenzieam]

Touch

Rating: M

Warnings: Major Angst, heartache, some language

Word Count: 3595

Tags: @jewels2876  @moonbeambucky  @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123  @iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt  @badassbaker  @pinknerdpanda  @oliviastan17 @mizzzpink​

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As time runs out, Lev remembers her first encounters with Bucky, and how the touch-starved, damaged man became just as important to her as she is to him.

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HEADS UP..... MAJOR ANGST AHEAD, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. i DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I WRITE THIS SHIT, IT JUST MAKES ME CRY.

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Shit, I’m cold.

But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore.

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped down here; things have gotten hazy.

It’s been a while though; I can’t hear half as many people screaming for help as before.

I’ve had time to figure out what happened at least, with nothing else to do but lay here, slowly suffocating.

My day, I think it’s fair to say, has gone spectacularly to shit.

I think it was an explosion that made the building collapse, but things were happening so goddamn fast I can’t say for sure.

Either way, I’m here, trapped, and I’m pretty sure I’m dying.

Figures, Bucky didn’t want me to go to this convention. If I live through this, I’ll never hear the end of it; Bucky hates being apart from me, because I’m not enhanced like he is, he thinks I’m fragile.

And to be honest, I’m feeling pretty goddamn fragile right now.

My back is arched, bowed backwards to where I could almost grab my ass with the arm that’s twisted back behind my head; my fingers are in the perfect place to scratch any itch I might have between my shoulder blades, but an itch is the least of my problems right now.

I can’t feel my legs.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that a large section of concrete wall is pinning me from the hips down, or if its something more sinister and permanent, a broken back perhaps. Either way, I can’t see my legs or feel them. Maybe they’re not even there anymore.

Would Bucky still love me if I were broken? No longer whole?

I think he would, he knows what it’s like to be incomplete. So many times, after we’ve made love, he’ll hold me and tell me how much he loves me, how I complete him, make him feel whole for the first time in nearly a century.

It’s a heady sensation, to know someone as powerful and legendary as James Barnes loves you.

I never expected to find someone like him, to feel the things he makes me feel.

It breaks my heart that it’s probably all going to end today, with me trapped, alone, in my proverbial coffin.

Was it only three and a half years ago I heard Tony Stark was hiring and me, fresh out of school with the ink on my doctorate of Physical Therapy not yet dry, decided on a whim to apply?

I never expected a call from the man himself, never expected to be given such a huge opportunity so early in my burgeoning career.

But Tony had a plan. People get hurt all the time, secretaries with carpel tunnel, agents with bruises and bumps, Avengers with broken bones earned on their newest mission, it only made sense to bring in a full time PT to the medical labs in the Avengers Complex, and Tony wanted someone fresh and new, someone without any bad habits to break as he put it, which is ironic when you consider all the bad habits Stark himself has.  

I’m still working on refining his damn posture in front of the computer, but I think it’s a losing battle.

My job was soon revealed, to help after Bruce and Helen had worked their magic, regain range of motion, stretch and massage damaged muscles, ensure the team ran at their peak.

While my job originally was supposed to include the entire Complex, it soon became obvious that all my attention would need to be devoted to the team of superheroes themselves and, after a few months of commuting to and from my small studio in the city, I gave into Stark’s less than subtle hints and moved directly into the Complex myself, becoming a round-the-clock, on-call-all-the-time member of the team.

My first interactions with Bucky were minimal, a shadow lurking behind the much more gregarious Captain America himself. I didn’t take it personally because, from what I could see and had heard, the former assassin stayed as far away from everyone that he possibly could.

But he ended up being half dragged to me by Steve himself a few months into my job, due to a lingering pain in the juncture of his shoulder from a recent injury; or more accurately, from a recent injury on the training mats that merely brought back the pain Bucky had apparently been struggling with off and on ever since HYDRA attached his first bionic arm.

The big man didn’t want to be there, I could tell and only his loyalty and commitment to his oldest friend kept his ass on the table as I examined the puffy, angry red scar tissue, his body rigid beneath my exploratory touch.

I knew enough of his past to realize that Bucky’s aversion to me was part of, if not wholly, due to the rough and cruel way HYDRA had treated him, when every contact meant hurt and degradation, but it still affected me. What had he lived through that had taught him that even simple touch meant pain? And how, with the very nature of my work involving discomfort, did I help him?

“Can you rotate your arm?” I ask quietly. When he hesitates, I continue. “I need to feel the joint when you move it.”

He nods silently, accepting the fact that my hands need to stay on him, press in lightly while he rotates his shoulder and, most likely, increase the pain he already feels.

I fall silent, close me eyes to help concentrate as he complies. “Again, please.”

I finger a particular point, deep in the joint and Bucky flinches, swallowing a low groan. I instantly feel horrible, for surely, to make Bucky react at all the pain I just caused must have been extraordinary, but it gives me something to focus on.

I pull away, trying to ignore the way his skin makes my fingers tingle; must be related to his serum-enhancement, my mind studiously ignoring the fact that touching Steve doesn’t illicit the same sensation and offer him a smile.

“I think a lot of that discomfort can be managed with massage, relaxing and sorting out the muscles involved. I’d prefer to try that, rather than jumping into more invasive therapies right away.”

I wait for his response, glancing at Steve when it appears for a beat that Bucky hasn’t even heard me but then it hits me.

Massage.

Continuous touch, continuous pain while he will be forced to lay immobile, tolerating it soundlessly.

Pretty much Bucky’s worst nightmare.

Shit.

Steve shifts his weight, clears his throat. He’s obviously torn between answering for his friend and letting Bucky decide, although it’s clear he expects Barnes to reject the proposal, to push on grimly through the ache and potentially damage his body more.

“Okay.” His voice is so low I almost don’t hear him.

“I’m sorry?” I lean closer, frowning with concentration. Fuck, for so huge and imposing a man, the guy can make himself practically invisible, even right beside you.

“Okay,” he repeats, barely raising his voice. “We’ll try.”

“I’ll do my best,” I feel compelled to reassure him, barely stopping myself from resting my hand on his shoulder, pulling back at the last second when I remember that that would probably be the last thing to calm the man. “To make it as tolerable, as pain-free as possible.”

Bucky nods but doesn’t answer.

“Want to start now?” Steve asks carefully, glancing between me and Bucky. I don’t know what Bucky will say, but I’ve probably filled his quota of contact today.

A silent head shake, his lank brown hair swinging, a quick but interesting glance up at my face. Is he concerned about my reaction?

“Tomorrow?” I ask gently. At his nod I continue, running through my schedule in my head and I know these two usually go running in the morning, hitting the gym after and then grabbing something to eat. “How about after lunch?”

“Okay.” Christ, the man’s voice is so quiet and soft, it doesn’t fit with his appearance. He looks like a beast, huge and muscular, danger radiating out of every pore. Its so much easier to visualize him as the cruel assassin The Winter Soldier than as a traumatized prisoner of war. That is, until you look in his eyes; then the muscles, the bulk and silent intimidating air all fall apart.

The concrete around me creaks, the rubble threatening to shift, and I hold my breath. It’s getting harder to breathe but I don’t know if that’s because of the way my torso is twisted, or just a general lack of fresh oxygen. I can’t see any daylight anywhere, of feel any type of air movement, but I also can’t move any part of myself around to look. For all I know, there could be a way out of this mess directly behind me, but I’m pinned.

How long has it been? I think I greyed out for a minute there, remembering one of my first meaningful encounters with Bucky, the first time he answered me, agreed to try massage therapy for his shoulder. The trust he showed wasn’t lost on me.

The building groans, as if its in pain too and I fight a rising panic. The voices I could hear around me have gotten less and less, the faint screams for help devolving into wordless, animal cries of agony before cutting off altogether and I wonder if anyone is even still alive. Is there any type of rescue effort yet? Has there been some kind of terrorist act that’s holding up my salvation?

Have they told Bucky?

The convention was a couple of thousand miles away from the Compound, even with the quinjet Bucky and I were hours apart.

Is he out there right now? Digging for me?

My mind wanders again as a fresh stab of agony shoot through my torso, ending curiously at my hips.

I look up at the soft knock at my office door and smile.

“Hello, James.”

His eyes meet mine, just for the barest heartbeat before dropping. “Bucky,” he murmurs.

“Bucky.” I agree, my smile widening at his soft, endearing air. I want to just gather him up and give him a hug, show him that there is love and gentleness in the world and he deserves it too; although, to be honest, I’d just look like a koala hanging off him, God, he’s beefy.

He follows me soundlessly through the Physio department, to the room I’ve set up strictly for massage therapy. I put myself through school moonlighting as a masseuse, and that was one of Tony’s first requests, that I set up shop again. It seems some days that half of my job is just massage, but I’m not complaining; I enjoyed it in school and it’s just as amiable now.

I gesture to the table, draped with clean sheets. “I’m just going to work on your back and shoulders, so you just need to take your shirt off, if you want to remove your pants too, that’s fine. Lay face down and there’s a sheet to put over yourself when you’re ready. I’ll be right back.”

He nods again but there’s a tension in his body now. Is it because he’s going to be showing his arm, the angry scars that surround it? I’ve seen it before, but it seems to be an enduring shame with him, and I make a note not to draw attention to it.

“Are you ready?” I knock softly and ask through the door, hear his quiet confirmation. I turn the lights lower as I enter, explaining as I do. “I’m just turning the lights down a bit.” I busy myself at the small table covered in different types of massage oil. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t relax under full lighting.” He mumbles some sort of agreement, head lowered into the u-shaped cushion. He’s laying face down, like I requested, but he’s anything but relaxed. Fists clenched tight, breathing quickly, he’s not letting go, not yet. “I can play some music if you want?”

“Okay.”

I pause, then speak. “Bucky? We can hold off; you seem a little tense-”

“No.” He lifts his head to look at me. “I’ll lay still, I promise. Just go ahead…. I won’t react, I can take it.”

I shake my head, that’s not the point. “No, Bucky. That’s not how it works here.”

He lifts his head again after dropping it during his statement about laying still, frowning thoughtfully, if a little suspiciously.

“You don’t have to just lay here and ‘take it’. This is for you, if you get uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, you say so and we’ll take a break. I don’t want you to just lay here and endure the pain. If it hurts, tell me; if you start to get overwhelmed, tell me. The last thing I want is to make this another bad experience for you.”

He pauses then, forehead furrowing slightly. From what I’ve gathered regarding his past, free choice wasn’t something ever offered to him, HYDRA would just order him to lay stay and endure whatever torture or torment they were performing.

That shit doesn’t fly here.

“You are in charge.” I squat at the head of the table to meet his eyes, wanting him to really hear me. “I will not do anything to you that you don’t consent to. I can’t guarantee it won’t hurt, but I will only do want you allow me to, okay?”

Something flickers through his eyes, something soft and vulnerable and I get the feeling that he will lay here for me through the worst pain, if only because I gave him the control to, something he’s never been given before.

“Okay,” he replies quietly.

“I’m not going to lie, the harder I work, the more it hurts initially, the quicker the pain will be over.”

He nods and I think he’s relieved that someone is taking the time and consideration to include him in what’s going to be done to his own body.

“But we go at your speed, okay?”

“Okay.”

I stand again, reach over and turn on my playlist, a compilation of soft, bluesy swamp rock and acoustic melodies and begin.

I’m getting tired.

Is it dark outside too?

Will I ever see the sky again?

I can’t think that way, I can’t give up. Not on myself, not on Bucky.

He will come for me; I just have to hold on until then.

My mind continues to wander, trying to distract itself from the growing lassitude in my body. The weariness, the lethargy scares me, I wish I could still feel the pain, at least I’d know I’m still here, existing, even with the agony.

I remember the way our relationship progressed, slow and cautious, tentative.

Slowly his body would turn from iron to relaxed muscles beneath my touch, slowly there would be anticipation, maybe even eagerness in his eyes when he’d walk into the department, rather than grim resignation.

Once he fell asleep on me, facedown on the massage table and I let him nap, leaving the music and lights low, the door cracked, waiting for him to wake as I went about with other duties, finally seeing him emerge looked a little shamefaced, smiling tentatively in apology as I worked with Sam on a range of motion exercise for his recently injured knee.

That seemed to be the final barrier.

After that, I was one of the few people Bucky actually chose to seek out, a rare and exclusive club.

It was easy to love him.

For even as I seemed to be a source of comfort and contentment for him, he too was my bastion of strength, my rock.

If he could wake up each morning and push on, then anything I encountered in life was conquerable too.

“Baby.” He groans, lips brushing my ear.

His powerful body moves above me, inside me, bringing me to heights of pleasure I’ve never felt before.

It’s our first-time making love together, and in some ways, it’s like its truly the first time for both of us.

He’s so gentle and tender, careful with how he handles me, like I’m precious glass in his large, powerful hands.

He cradles me as he thrusts, holding me close to him, whimpers faintly and its that sound of pure vulnerable surrender that pushes me over the edge. He follows, groaning my name into my hair as his body shudders. I feel him pulse inside me, the most peaceful feeling of rightness suffusing my limbs.

Right here.

This is where I’m meant to be.

This is the point my entire life has been leading to.

He collapses beside me, breathing heavily and I roll to the side, resting my arm across his heaving chest. The faint flinch he always had, that he still has with most other people, is gone. He trusts me completely and it’s a gift I will never waste.

His eyes lock with mine, searching, somehow dark with desire and light with joy at the same time. His body is ready again, hard and straining, serum-enhanced and close to insatiable.

I roll to straddle him, his eyes following me. His hands reach up and I clasp them, twine our fingers together, press against them as I sink down onto his cock, watch his eyes roll back in his head with ecstasy. I roll my hips, encouraged by the sounds my movements draw from him, the low groans and grunts, moans and hums of pleasure.

“Fuck-” he curses and my heart dances.

My body is hungry, wanting more, and I increase my pace, chasing another release.

His eyes open, lock on mine once again and we stay connected like that, both in gaze and in body. I watch the emotions shine there, in his supernaturally blue depths, see the vulnerability there, something akin to awe, as if he has trouble believing he’d ever be this way again, open and honest and bare with someone else, trusting them in so many ways.

“Bucky-” my voice drops into a whine as my peak hits, my eyes closing.

“No.” He orders and my eyes snap open. “Let me see you, baby. Let me watch you.”

Our eyes lock again as I give in and then he’s coming too, thrusting up into me one last time, eyes burning into mine, the expression in them driving me into another, simultaneous orgasm, which infinity loops back into Bucky, his body shuddering as my walls milk him, drawing his seed hungrily, and I realize that there’s few things I’d rather be in this world right now, than joined so viscerally with him like this.

The only thing that would make this better would be if his seed takes root inside me and I’m able to give him a child, a second chance, an opportunity for unconditional love.

I cough, wince at the pain that flares in my chest, taste copper in my mouth.

It won’t be long now, I feel the truth in my bones and, while it breaks my heart, I still fight it.

I need to see Bucky, even if its for the last time.

I’ll miss our life together, the way he always sought me out, wherever I was.

Touch-starved as he was, for nearly a century, once Bucky learned he could trust me, began to touch me whenever he could.

An arm around me from behind, lips on my neck. Tight hugs for no reason, seeming to recharge at our connection. Waking tangled up with the huge cuddle-bug, barely knowing where I ended, and he began.

And the way he’d cling to me on the couch, even if others were there too, uncaring about what they thought. Curled against me like a child, head buried in my neck, almost purring under my touch as I ran my hands along his back and shoulders, like stroking and taming a large beast, soaking in the touch-love like parched earth and water.

After almost a century of starving, he was hungry for connection now, for my touch.

I hate that I’ll be taking that from him.

Slight sounds I’ve been hearing sporadically for a while now but not really able to make out become faint rustles nearby, a muffled call.

The rubble creaks, threatens to shift and, after a fraught pause, the rustling continues.

“Lev?!” I hear someone call, faint and blurry, but the way the word cuts tells me they’re screaming.

I try to answer but can only croak.

The weight on my body is almost too much now, the exhaustion pulling me further and further down. My belly feels heavy and a faint part of me muses that I’m probably bleeding internally, probably have been since I came to in this horrible, choking blackness.

Would Bucky still love me if I were broken? No longer whole?

I know the answer.

Yes.

I loved Bucky before he was whole, when he was broken.

A giant rat is nearby, scratching, then the cutting scream again, closer and cracking with strain. I recognize it finally, Bucky’s voice, breaking with anxiety, snapping under the stress. His throat will be sore for days.

I imagine him tunneling through the rubble by hand, shaking off other’s hands that try to stop him, tell him it’s too late and there’s no way I can still be alive.

But I know he won’t stop, not until he can touch me again.