Black and White Ants
It takes Bucky a week to sit down and watch the footage.
His skin has been crawling with bees ever since Tony handed the flash drive over to him, reeking of sympathy and guilt. The last bit was surprising— Bucky thought the only person left who could feel anything towards him was Steve.
Sam and Natasha won’t stop making jokes about it. Bucky sees Steve look down to hide the heat rising in his cheeks when they start speculating about who catches and who pitches. Bucky tells them that the answer is neither and Natasha rolls her eyes like she doesn’t believe him.
Most of the time, Steve is still shocked that they can discuss sodomy openly without the risk of being jailed for indecency. Sam goes on about the many civil rights movements they’ve missed. He knows a lot about Stonewall and Marsha P. Johnson. Bucky and Steve listen attentively.
Only a couple of weeks back, Bucky’s therapist brought up Steve’s devotion to him in attempts to get Bucky to open up about his own feelings.
Bucky didn’t.
Those feelings are special because they’re just his and Steve’s.
Even though he loves Steve more than anything— lately, Bucky has been a little mean.
Not knowing the content of the files makes him anxious and irritable, snapping at the smallest of things.
Like the amount of sugar in his coffee or the brand of honey in his tea. Steve always makes both of those for him— it’s all Bucky is allowing himself to drink. The caffeine is just enough to get him through training without falling and cracking his head open on the concrete.
Bucky lies to Steve about snacking on fruits and crackers because he doesn’t want to worry him. Until he watches the footage, he doesn’t deserve a meal.
As he feels his stomach twisting and turning— from both hunger and fear— Bucky watches the screen.
The volume is turned all the way down because he has super soldier hearing and even the lowest level sounds like screaming. There’s a possibility that there will be actual screaming in the video, so Bucky doesn’t want to risk it.
He doesn’t get past the one minute mark, punching at the screen with his metal arm as soon as he sees his own body, beaten bloody and sticky with semen.
He sticks two flesh fingers down his throat and leans over the toilet right after, but for the first time in a week, Bucky lets himself eat.
*
Bucky can’t tell Steve about the tapes. About what Hydra did to him.
Not when Steve is finally feeling comfortable enough to initiate cuddling instead of just coddling him.
They did it often as kids.
Bucky would wrap himself around Steve, pretending to be an octopus devouring him. Steve would giggle and shriek all high pitched, and Bucky would only stop if it induced one of his coughing fits.
Bucky remembers that one time, he left Steve heaving and gasping for breath for a good thirty minutes. Bucky already felt so guilty, but then Sarah scolded him about it, begging him to be more gentle with Steve.
When he finally composed himself enough to speak, Steve told Bucky not to listen to Sarah. He always asked for more than what his little body could take. If Bucky didn’t love him so much, he would’ve given it to him.
All throughout their childhood, Bucky made a conscious effort to be gentle with Steve.
Instead of taking both of Steve’s hands in his own and swinging them back and forth harshly, the way Becca sometimes did to him— Bucky would take Steve’s slender hands and kiss his fingertips.
Steve always got real bashful about it, blushing and everything.
But then Steve would turn around and drape his entire body over Bucky like he thought nothing of it— their mess of tangled limbs.
Even in the summertime, Bucky liked feeling Steve’s weight on him, like a blanket on the beach. It’d be so easy to shake him off or blow him away like the sea breeze, but Bucky never did. Instead, Bucky stayed still and wrapped an arm around him.
It rained and the television antennas got wet, but when they were tangled up in each other, even the battle of the black and white ants seemed interesting.
It was completely innocent.
*
That changed after puberty.
Bucky remembers a couple of incidents in their teenage years, vividly.
They slept in the same bed during the winter— just like brothers did.
Except sometimes Bucky would wake up in the middle of the night, feeling something hard and full near his hip.
Then he’d hear those soft whispers, desperate and sweet like sin. Almost like he was praying.
God didn’t answer him, but Bucky did.
Pretending to be asleep, Bucky would press back against him. The choked moans that escaped from Steve’s lips always gave Bucky the sweetest dreams.
By the time morning came around, Bucky was fully loaded and in need of release.
He didn’t masturbate.
He went out and met up with women. Some were twice his age and graying. Others were young like him, and clueless as to what to do with a penis.
It didn’t matter who they were as long as he thought of Steve.
*
Bucky convinced himself early on in his arrival to the tower that it was a thing of the past.
It being both of their sexual needs.
So he ignores it when Steve’s hands linger at the small of his back or rest at his hips. He pretends not to see Steve’s gaze flick back and forth between his eyes and his lips, like he’s dying to kiss him.
Steve’s obvious sexual attraction toward him— even now, with a missing limb— isn’t entirely disgusting. But it is intimidating.
The thought of being intimate with Steve is giant— too big for him to think about or discuss in therapy.
They haven’t even had a conversation about the status of their relationship. They’re clearly committed to one another. Bucky knows Steve would die for him. But does Steve want to fuck him?
Steve always scolds Tony about referring to them as boyfriends. But then he lets Sam and Natasha get away with the same thing. It’s confusing.
Bucky wouldn’t mind it if things between them stayed mostly platonic. Sex would make things complicated. Sex would hurt.
Bucky has to remind himself that what happened in those tapes— that’s not how sex is supposed to be.
Things would be different with Steve.
Steve would be kind, gentle, and sweet. Because Bucky deserves it. Because Bucky was always like that with him, when they were kids.
Bucky wants to talk to him about it.
Before it’s too late and Steve finds somebody else to sleep with.
Wiping the bile from his chin and heading to the sink to brush his teeth, Bucky commits to it.
He’ll apologize for the way he’s been behaving and ask Steve for clarification on what their relationship is.
He doesn’t want his last memory of sex to be of Rumlow and his team. He wants to forget about everything in the tapes that Tony gave him. He wants to make love to someone without a gun to his head or a knife to his ribs.
He wants Steve.
*
Bucky spends the rest of the evening trying to muster up the courage to tell him. Every time he’s about to speak, his body stops him.
It’s almost midnight and he still hasn’t been able to say anything.
From opposite ends of the couch— because Bucky deliberately put this space between them and Steve respected the boundary immediately— they watch the second episode of Game of Thrones.
It’s supposed to be a twenty first century classic.
But Bucky’s unable to focus on the carefully choreographed violence and gratuitous sex scenes on screen because Steve keeps watching him.
At first he thinks Steve is just appreciating his appearance like he does when he thinks Bucky isn’t paying attention to him. Bucky doesn’t tell him, but it’s a logical fallacy. He’s never not paying attention to Steve.
Then Bucky realizes there’s a pattern to it.
Steve only looks at him from the corner of his eye whenever blood is spilled on screen— which unfortunately for Ned Stark— is rather frequently.
They’re supposed to be relaxing, watching TV. But even like this, Bucky manages to make Steve stress about things.
Bucky knows he should be grateful that Steve worries so much about him. And Bucky is grateful. He is.
But he’s also angry. He’s angry that just a few hours ago, he was stupid enough to think that Steve would ever want to have sex with him.
All Steve does is worry about him. That’s not sexy.
Feeling repulsed with himself, Bucky decides not to torture Steve with his presence any longer.
“Is it okay if I turn in?” Bucky asks. His voice is still hoarse from the crying.
“Already?” Steve’s eyes are wide and alert. He thinks Bucky’s been triggered by something on the show.
But he wasn’t triggered. Not even when Khal Drogo began to mount Daenerys Targaryen.
“I’m okay, my eyes are just tired,” Bucky tries to sound reassuring, “Is it okay if I go to my room and sleep?” He needs permission from Steve.
Steve looks a little disappointed, but still smiles at him.
“Yeah, of course, Buck,” Steve stands from the couch, picking up the throw blanket that falls off of him, “Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?”
“Please.” Bucky needs it to sleep.
He follows Steve to the kitchen and sits on the stool to the far left of the counter, the one closest to the wall. It makes him feel safe and secure. Like he’s boxed in.
“I think we should probably stick to another show,” Steve tells him, opening up the box of Chamomile, “Maybe something less graphic?”
There was a time where all of Steve and Bucky’s favorite books involved gore and fantasy. Fiction was always their favorite isle in the library and even back then, authors felt real comfortable torturing fictional characters.
Now they can’t even watch a show without it being a hazard for him.
He fights the urge to pour the boiling water on his skin.
“Sorry.” Bucky apologizes. Why does he have to ruin everything? “You can watch it without me.”
“Don’t apologize,” Steve frowns as he stirs the tea, “It wouldn’t be fun watching without you. We’ll just pick something else.”
“Maybe the musical.” Bucky suggests. It’s meant to be sarcastic.
“You mean Glee?” Steve hands the cup over to Bucky. “Natasha did call it iconic.”
“And Natasha’s never lied, right?”
Bucky’s back to being mean. Maybe it wasn’t the stress of not knowing what was in the tapes. Maybe Bucky’s just an asshole to the only people who care about him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve crosses his arms across his chest, eyebrows furrowing.
“Nothing, Steve,” Bucky stares down at his reflection in the tea, “Nothing.”
Natasha told Bucky more than once that Steve clearly wanted him. That Bucky ought to do something about it.
Steve looks at him like he wants to say something, but he also doesn’t want to be the one to destroy the little balance and sanity that Bucky has left in him.
“You’ve been tense all week,” He leans forward on the counter with his elbows and looks at Bucky with gentle eyes, “But tonight especially.”
“Sorry,” Bucky says, forcing himself to look at Steve when he speaks, “I don’t mean to be.”
“Is it me?” Steve asks, so low it’s almost a whisper. “Did I do something?” It sounds desperate and sweet. “Are you mad at me?”
Bucky shakes his head. It’s me. I’m the problem. It’s always me. Bucky thinks.
“You sure?” Steve bites at the inside of his cheek. “Sam tells me I can get a little overbearing, if you think—“
“I think you’re perfect, Steve.”
The words ring like a confession between them.
But Steve’s neither saint nor priest. He straightens up and shakes his head at him. “I’m not perfect Bucky.”
You’re perfect to me. Always have been. Even when you were barely over five feet. Even when I was falling and you didn’t catch me.
That’s what Bucky wants to say to Steve.
Instead, he takes a sip and hums, “The tea is.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Steve relaxes his shoulders a bit, relieved. It’s hard to get things completely right with Bucky.
“It’s the right kind of honey.” Bucky’s lips are glossy from it.
“I know.” Steve shows him the jar, bits of the hive in it and everything, “I made sure of it this time.”
“Thanks.” He hopes Steve knows he isn’t just talking about the tea, “I appreciate it.”
“Of course.” Being useful to Bucky feels so good that Steve feels like he should be the one thanking him, “Whatever you need.”
“You’re not going to drink any?”
“No, I think—“ Steve clears his throat, “I think I’ll stay up a little longer. Maybe read.”
“Okay,” Bucky says. Then, as if Steve doesn’t know his own hobbies, “You could draw something.”
Steve nods like he appreciates the suggestion. He appreciates anything Bucky gives him. Which isn’t much, admittedly.
Bucky pushes off of the counter, taking the tea cup with him. He manages to give a small smile and say, “Goodnight, Steve.” It still feels weird on his lips.
“Night, Buck,” If they were lying down together in Steve’s bed right now, like they do on good days, this would be the part where Steve kisses his forehead before turning around to sleep, “Holler if you need anything.”
Bucky only hums in agreement, already slipping. Into his thoughts. Or into the past, maybe. Steve can’t always tell which one it is.
All he can do is sigh as he watches Bucky’s silhouette disappear.
*
Even after drinking all the tea, Bucky can’t sleep.
He tosses and turns beneath the white sheets, groaning in frustration when it fails to completely cover both of his feet.
Spreading out his limbs, he imagines himself as a starfish, regrowing all the missing pieces.
But he’s not at sea. He’s in his own bed. Alone, without Steve.
Bucky rubs at his eyes, “What time is it?”
“It’s a quarter after two, sir.” Jarvis is always listening.
That means Bucky has been tossing and turning for almost two hours now. It’s not viable. He have combat training early in the morning. At six.
There’s no point in pretending differently. He needs Steve.
Bucky swings his feet over the bed, sitting at the edge for a little bit. It probably isn’t healthy— this codependency thing.
He’ll talk about it with his therapist someday, but right now, he needs to get enough sleep to function properly. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself during training. Not in front of Natasha and Clint.
Rationalizing it away as necessary for the good of the team, Bucky decides to go to Steve.
The tile is cold under his feet. Maybe Bucky should’ve brought his blanket with him? He pauses at the thought then purses his lips.
No, because then he wouldn’t have an excuse to share one with Steve.
Bucky relies on muscle memory to move through the darkness and avoid tripping on anything.
But when he makes it to Steve’s door, the noises he hears have him stumbling.
There’s no doubt about it.
Steve sounds the same, after all these years.
*
Steve is confident in Jarvis and all the other security protocols they have at the tower.
It’s why he thinks he’s imagining it at first— the sound of footsteps getting closer and closer.
If it were anybody else— he would’ve picked up on them as soon as they reached the hall.
But Bucky spent years working for Hydra as a trained assassin. He knows how to be quiet when he needs to be, feet light on the floor like a ballerina.
Steve breathes in sharply, short of gasping. His hand pauses right where it is, wrapped around his penis, thumb over the tip.
Then Bucky’s cautious voice comes, sweet and startling. “Steve?”
Okay. He’s definitely not imagining it.
Steve springs up from the bed, wraps a blanket around his waist in case Bucky walks in, and searches desperately for his underwear.
“Steve?” Bucky tries again, knocking on the door twice this time.
He knows Steve heard him. He can hear him scrambling from the other side of the room.
Steve knows Bucky knows that he knows.
The knowledge is like Inception. Except all the dreams are wet.
“One second!” Steve’s voice is higher than usual.
Bucky imagines Steve flying a kite, bringing it higher and higher into the sky, toward the blistering hot sun. He’d be sweating, hands against the string and around the handle— looking for the white of the clouds through furrowed brows, parted lips, and heavy eyelids.
The image makes his mouth dry and his head dizzy, but Bucky collects his thoughts and tries to speak.
“It’s okay, Steve,” Bucky hears a whine from the other side of the door, like Steve disagrees, “Can I come in?”
Steve freezes in place. He’s on all fours, to the side of his bed.
“Don’t!” That’s when he finds the pair of boxers, Calvin Klein and gray. He must’ve kicked them in his panic, and now they’re dead in the center of the space under his bed.
Bucky’s hand stops above the door handle, trembling in the air.
“I’m not decent—“ Steve groans as he hits his head with the bed frame, stretching forward as much as he can. His limbs are longer than most, but even then, he can’t reach. “Don’t come in!”
Steve scolds himself for shouting so frantically, “Just— give me a minute, Buck,” and strains his ears for signs that Bucky is upset about it.
He can’t pick up on anything except his own heartbeat, ringing in his ears like a fire drill.
Bucky feels lucky that Steve can’t see him, jaw flexing and fists clenching. The loose fitted pajama pants he wears are tighter than usual. It takes every ounce of self control not to barge in.
It’s the first time Bucky’s had an erection in years. The first one that wasn’t forced out of him, at least.
It’s hard.
He’s hard.
But Bucky respects Steve. He’ll wait outside the bedroom door for however long Steve needs.
“Fuck.” Steve gives up on Calvin Klein. The pair of underwear laugh at him from under the bed, mocking.
He pushes himself up, wobbly on his feet. He feels like a penguin except it’s not an egg that he’s trying to keep in.
“Fuck.” Bucky could be bleeding out to death outside his door for all Steve knows.
Well, that’s not true. Steve knows he’s not bleeding because he doesn’t smell pennies.
Steve rushes to the dresser, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he pulls out a clean pair of basketball shorts. He nearly falls slipping them on.
Settling for having his chest visible, Steve makes his way to the door. He has to push his own discomfort aside, because he can feel Bucky on the other side, vibrating.
When he opens it, Bucky is looking right at him. Not quite like a deer. More like a ghost.
Steve decides that he’s fine with being haunted. Nobody call the Winchesters.
“Sorry,” Steve stutters, “I promise I wasn’t— I didn’t—“
“You don’t have to apologize,” Bucky swallows, wetting his lower lip. “It’s natural. You’re a man. You have needs.”
Steve blinks. Did Bucky just lick his lips?
Maybe he came to ask for chapstick. Good God, Steve.
“No, it’s— it’s not. It’s completely in appropriate for me to do that when you’re home—“ He feels the heat from his cheeks start to tickle his ears pink. “It’s completely disrespectful of me—“
“Steve.” Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s arm, steady and firm.
“Buck?” Steve is afraid to lean into the touch, but he wants to. He’d like to melt into it.
“I’m sorry for interrupting, I just couldn’t sleep.” He should stop talking there. “But now I think—“ He can’t stop talking. “I think I need to tell you something.”
And now that Steve is able to stop and think of something other than how embarrassing the whole situation is, he notices that Bucky’s hand is shaking too, where it meets his skin.
“Okay,” Steve puts his own hand above Bucky’s— no, not the one he was using earlier. “Is everything alright?”
A small stupid part of Steve is afraid. Afraid that Bucky might be about come clean about his absolute repulsion toward him.
Bucky doesn’t know that Steve was thinking about him while he was doing it.
Steve pales at the thought. Wait. Does he?
As far as he knows, there’s no such thing as super-soldier-mind-reading.
“This probably isn’t the right time,” Bucky’s voice stops Steve from spiraling, “But if I don’t talk to you about it tonight, I never will.”
That almost sounds like the prologue to a love confession. Is that what this is?
Steve resists the urge to hyperventilate and flee. He can’t afford to be a coward when Bucky is relying on him. When Bucky loves him.
“Then now is as good as ever,” Steve moves to the side so that Bucky can walk in. He doesn’t miss the way Bucky closes and locks the door behind him, paranoid that someone else might try to come in after him, “You can talk to me.”
Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to another, still too anxious to speak. He feels small. Like if he opens his mouth, the only thing that will come out is a stupid squeak.
Steve gives him a minute. Then he sits down on the edge of his bed so that Bucky is looming over him. He intends for it to make Bucky feel safer. He wants Bucky to know he’s in control of the room, above Steve.
“I don’t—“ Bucky blinks quickly to stop the tears, “I don’t know if I should tell you,” but his voice still cracks when he speaks, “I don’t know if it changes anything.”
“Hey, Buck,” Steve searches for Bucky’s gaze with his own. “Whether things change or not is up to you. I promise you can trust me. With whatever it is.”
It looks like it pains him to do it, but Bucky meets his eyes, finally.
That’s all he does for a bit. Stands and stares at Steve. Again, Steve is patient with him.
Then Bucky’s eyes flicker over to the light switch. “Can we do something?” Bucky asks him.
Steve nods without asking what it is.
“It’s stupid.” Bucky warns him.
He hears an echo in his mind. How could I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.
Steve shrugs and smiles at him. “That’s fine. I don’t mind stupid.”
Bucky nods, walking over to the switch.
“I’m going to turn the lights off,” Bucky tells him, “Whatever I say in the dark, you can’t use against me.”
Steve winces like he’s been kicked.
“I’d never hold anything against you, Buck.” He looks disappointed. “I never have.” A little offended, even.
“I thought—“ Steve shakes his head, “I thought we were past this.”
Steve doesn’t get it. Bucky doesn’t know how to explain it to him.
“This is different.” Bucky swallows, thick. “I just don’t— I don’t want you to look at me differently.”
“And you think the lights are going to do something?” Steve asks him. “I can’t look at you differently if I can’t see at you at all?” Steve doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be mean. “Is that it?”
“I told you it was stupid.” Bucky says.
He makes a move for the door, but Steve grabs him by the wrist before he can leave.
Bucky flinches quite visibly.
“Okay,” Steve nods, “That’s okay. If that’s what you need,.” He lets go of Bucky’s wrist, sitting back down at the edge of the bed like a student that’s been sent back to his seat. “We can turn the lights off and you can tell me about it. As soon as the lights are on, it’ll be like nothing happened. I won’t bring up whatever you tell me— unless you want me to.”
Bucky nods, and Steve amends his statement a bit. “Unless you tell me that you want me to.” He doesn’t want to assume things.
Bucky sees Steve squeezing his bedsheets, trembling a bit. Steve struggled with anxiety growing up, but Bucky thought the serum had taken care of it.
“I don’t want to tell you if you don’t want to hear it.” Bucky says.
It’s a heavy thing to share with somebody. He needs to be sure Steve is willing to carry it.
“I want to—“ Steve promises. “I’m only nervous because you’re really building up the suspense here.”
“Sorry.” Bucky rubs at the back of his neck. He is dragging it on, isn’t he?
He walks to the light switch slowly. It only takes four steps, but the walk feels miles long and at least six feet deep, beneath his feet.
Steve smiles at him, waiting.
With his flesh hand, he flicks the switch.
*
Even though he can’t see anything, Bucky closes his eyes. He’s not scared of the dark when Steve’s with him.
Steve’s voice surprises him. “Did you eat a newborn baby?”
Bucky manages to laugh a little. “Afraid not, no cannibalism.”
Come on, Steve. This isn’t Snowpiercer.
“Okay.” Steve lets out a deep breath, exaggerating his relief. “Then consider me ready.”
Bucky hums to let Steve know he heard him.
“Do you want to sit with me?” Steve asks, patting the empty space next to him.
“Yeah.” Bucky walks over to him, calculating the bed space a bit too generously. He nearly sits on Steve. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine.” Steve assures him.
Their thighs touch, where they sit.
“Okay,” Bucky starts, voice unsteady. “You know those flash drives Tony gave me?”