Bucky Barnes/Wade Wilson - “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”
“Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?” Bucky offered, stumbling over his words. He was still unused to offering his services. Granted that usually meant offering to kill or maim someone, but this was just as hard. But Wade was….he was…
Wade was curled in a ball in the corner of his bedroom, fingers desperately raking the scars on his arms. He tried to look nonchalant as he rocked back and forth. “O-ooh, a massage,” he leeringly. “Is it my birthday?”
Bucky didn’t answer, striding across the room to the ensuite, rifling through the medicine cabinet, which was mostly filled with various assortments of lube and lotions. Bucky picked one out and returned to Wade.
Wade looked up at him, blood oozing from the wounds he’d inflicted on himself.
Bucky caught his hands and squeezed them, the lotion on the floor in front of him. “Wade,” he said in his most comforting tone, hating it, that he sounded just like Steve had when Bucky lashed out at him during those dark months of his recovery. A tone that was laced with pity, somehow patronising in it’s blamelessness. “Come lie on the bed.”
Wade was still looking at him, and for a second Bucky worried he’d have to haul Wade to the bed.
Then Wade stood up. “I carry a lot of tension in my shoulders,” he joked weakly as blood pattered onto the floor.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bucky replied as he stood too, following Wade to the bed.
Wade whimpered as Bucky poured cream onto his back. “It hurts,” he said softly.
“I know,” Bucky said softly, fleshy hand running over Wade’s back, the metal one on Wade’s hip. Wade’s back arched.
“Perv,” he mumbled. “Using this as an excuse to get your hands on my body.” But he was slowly untensing and Bucky let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.