[fic] One Pale Season (Bucky/Cap, adult)
Title: One Pale Season (source)
Author: gloss
Medium: Marvel - Captain America (Sentinel of Liberty and v.5)
Rating: Adult
Summary: "We were using the wrong strategy to win the war. Why *attack* Mussolini when Bucky could just *charm* him?"
Disclaimer: Simon and Kirby and, later, Waid and Brubaker wrote Cap and Bucky for Timely and Marvel. I do not.
Notes: Summary from CA: SoL #12. jubilancy and oneangrykate generously stoked my Cap 'n Bucky-love, and then thete1 wanted h/c cliches - "huddling for warmth" *and* "Nazi sex pollen" (I hope Nazi sex schnapps works just as well). This is for all three.
Remote Vorpommern, Germany, February 1944
They escape from the Luftwaffe officers' party by the skin of their teeth. The fireball engulfing the rec hall behind them paints the snow crimson and orange beneath the endless, black Baltic sky.
Bucky's limping as they run - he took a hit to his left knee that Steve couldn't block - and his lips are drawn back over his teeth against the pain.
"Little farther," Steve says, the words flying indistinctly into the icy wind.
Bucky tucks his chin and keeps running, almost pacing Steve. His bad leg hits the snow hollowly.
"Hey -" Steve whacks Bucky's shoulder before leaping over a hillock and yanking Bucky up with him. "You with me, partner?"
"Never doubt it."
Bucky huffs behind him as they run toward the horizon, the sounds of explosions and gunfire fading in the distance.
Steve leaps over a narrow, icy river and sways a little on his feet, waiting for Bucky to wade through. Around him, the night expands in the cold, a black curtain snapping open like something from a vaudeville magician's hand.
"Good," Steve hears himself reply, later than he'd meant, and he grabs at his own throat, at the heat shaping itself into pebbles and blades within. "Don't think -. *Uh* - those schnapps -" Falling to one knee, he winces, remembering Bucky's pain as his own. "- didn't agree with me."
The black gleams as Bucky shouts at him - the black condenses, maybe into stars, bright-whirling things, as it spreads over him.
*
Someone's slapping Steve's cheeks. Rhythmically, bringing up a flush that does not cease, that just gets hotter. It's cold everywhere except under his own skin; there, it's hot as a furnace, getting warmer. He thinks the glow coming off him might blind him, and he squints as he sits up.
His head bangs something crumbly and cold, hard but -.
"Cold -"
Bucky kneels next to him, hand pulled back for another slap. "Cap?"
"Cold," Steve says again. When he rubs his smarting head, his hand comes away wet. Water, not blood, thank heaven. "Hot."
Bucky frowns a little, the mask wrinkling over the bridge of his nose. "And...?"
"Where -?" The space is close, and dark, but the cold is bigger than that. He's burning inside, but none of the heat's making it out -. Steve shakes his head, hard, but only gets a rush of vertigo for his trouble.
"Snow cave," Bucky says as he presses Steve's shoulder back, until he's half-reclining again. The heat inside his skin flares up to meet Bucky's touch. "You took a whammy there, Cap."
"Huh." Steve jabs experimentally at his own jaw. No flare. He grabs Buck's wrist - *there* it is, a gritty surge of heat. "Oh."
Bucky slips his hand free. "Want to try some two-syllable words now?"
Steve looks around again; while he was out, Buck built them a real snug little shelter. His shield forms the roof, criss-crossed with fir branches and packed with snow. At his feet, the snow is tramped down hard and he's sitting on a little ledge.
When he reaches to push a fir twig back in place, he realizes he's back in his field uniform, wool greatcoat and all. A little bewildered - how long was he out for? - he plucks at the lapel. "Uniform?"
"That's three syllables. Easy, brother." Bucky grins, quick and sharp. "Costume's on underneath. Just never know who's going to answer the radio call."
"Oh. Oh, of course." When Steve shifts, he *can* feel his costume under his field drab. He's just having trouble - it's hot, and then cold. Hard to think.
Buck's still wearing his mask, his thin field jacket pulled tight around his neck.
Steve smacks his lips. "But you -. You're -"
"Bucky's the name." The grin this time is wider, a little slower, and Steve grins back.
"Not concussed, wisenheimer. Just -" *Hot*, but he already said that. "You're cold."
Bucky shakes his head, but he's shivering, arms wrapped tight around his chest, hands in his pits, as he bounces on his heels. "Nope."
"You're a bad liar."
Bucky grins again. "*Excellent* liar, as a matter of fact."
"You're *cold*."
"Nothing special."
"Saints *alive*, Buck. Can't lie to *me*."
Bucky slows his bouncing until he is, finally, still. "Don't suppose I can."
This must count as a victory of some sort. "Right."
Steve fumbles at the buttons on his overcoat. When Bucky's hand covers his, another flare of heat at the contact claws up Steve's throat. He shakes off the touch, swallowing down the groan, and manages to open the last button.
"What're you doing, Cap?" Bucky's head is tilted, cheek resting against his shoulder. He sounds truly curious, looks like an alleycat sizing up its dinner. "Keep that coat on."
"Not taking it off." Steve flaps open the coat and wiggles back. "Get in."
"What?"
Steve spreads his legs a little, makes sure the coat's tails cover the snow, and repeats himself.
Bucky looks down, then up at the shield. "Sheesh, Cap, I'm -"
"Buck."
"What?"
"Cold out here. Armstrong's boys won't get through the storm til morning. Get. In."
Bucky's face - everything - glows a little, monochrome, like they're up on the screen in some movie palace. Like he's lit from the inside. After a beat, after thinking it over - Steve always knows *when* Bucky's thinking, just hardly ever *what* - he shrugs and rolls to his feet in a single fluid movement. The kind of movement Steve can't ever hope to match, no matter how many Vita-Rays he might take in.
"You're loony," Bucky says, turning around to back up into the space between Steve's legs.
"Other way -" Steve almost grunts again when Bucky twists and brushes his thigh. It must be the cold; there's no other reason for every touch shooting through him like this. The cold, and those damned schnapps the fraulein kept pressing on him.
Over his shoulder, Bucky shoots him a narrow-eyed look. "Face to face?"
"Want to -" Steve's head thunks against the snow as Bucky twists, descends, *settles* against his chest. He recovers quickly, but his skin's still lit up like San Gennaro, twinkling and yearning with heat. Bucky starts to draw back, but Steve wraps his arm around Bucky's skinny waist and pulls him in. "Heavier," he says hoarsely, lying only because he doesn't know what else to say. "Surprised me."
"Haven't put on more than five pounds since basic," Bucky says. His breath blooms against Steve's neck. "You sure you're all right?"
"Cold." Steve buttons the coat over Bucky's back. His hands are working without his permission, leaving bright red trails as they move. It's a tight fit, but he gets them all fastened. "There. All -" He grits his teeth when Bucky shifts his weight. "All set."
"Huh," Bucky says doubtfully.
"You set?"
"Warmer."
"Good," Steve says and tries not to sound as smug as he feels.
"I was just fine before."
"Sure you were, kiddo. Sure you were."
He's touched Buck plenty of times - held him as they parachuted behind enemy lines, carried him to the medic's cart, slung him in a fireman's hold and spun around fast, just for kicks.
So this snug little operation they've worked up here, this shouldn't feel any different. No, sir, no different.
Except for the fact that he's got a furnace glowing bright in his belly and firecrackers shooting off every which way in his limbs. He's half-sure he can *feel* every shift of Buck's bones, every smooth slide of his muscles. His head's filling with smoke and his pores are dilating, venting heat just as fast as they're trying to suck Bucky *in*.
"Cap?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"Sure you're not -?"
Bucky's mouth is silver in the dark. He needs to warm up.
*Steve* needs to warm him up.
That's not *his* thought. That's the - schnapps. Or furnace. Not him.
"No. I mean - I'm -" It takes some doing, grinding his teeth together against the groaning heat, but Steve worms his arms out of the coat sleeves and brings them around Bucky's waist. "There. Better."
Bucky bites his lower lip and sucks briefly. "...right."
"Effects of the cold, Barnes. Better if we -"
Bucky's laugh is the sharpest, warmest thing, breaking against Steve's neck. "Better if we *spoon*?"
"Long as we don't fork," Steve says as lightly as he can.
Not lightly enough. Bucky looks him over, mouth drawn tight and dark as his mask, eyes flickering.
Steve gulps. "Joke?"
There's no room inside the coat, their faces are too close to see very clearly. But Bucky's flexible, as strong as he is skinny, and here he is *shifting* again, left hand on Steve's chest, his hips moving in a slow, thoughtful roll.
"Was it? A joke?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost absent-minded, but he's looking at - maybe *into* - Steve. Same way he looks at sentries before he draws the knife, same way he looks at the dead fallen in the snow. Fierce and still, pre-explosive.
And his hips and belly are pushing, *kneading*, more heat into Steve's groin.
"I -" Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He can't hide from Bucky behind his lids, but he tries anyway. Never could hide from Bucky, never worth bothering to try. Not back at Lehigh, in its tents, definitely not now, not after everything they've seen and done.
"Steve." A roll, little gust of breath, brush of something - lips, maybe, mercury-cool and bright, over his jaw.
"Schnapps," Steve gets out, trying to ignore the clattering riot of the furnace in his skin, the tendrils and choking kudzu of heat, insisting he grab Bucky, roll them over, warm him up everywhere. "Too much schnapps."
"You can't get drunk, Steve."
"Special schnapps," Steve insists. Has to insist, because - because.
"Maybe," Bucky says, using the tone that's always meant, No earthly way, Rogers, you big goof, but we'll play your game. "Maybe."
Steve's hands are on Bucky's waist. He's trying not to clutch as hard as he can. His palms are bare, pressed against the sliding planes and pulling ropes of Bucky's movements.
It's a code in and of itself, how Bucky moves, why and when.
When Bucky twists at the waist, just a little, then pushes forward, his knees tightening around Steve's own waist, it's - bright and smoky and *huge*.
Steve can't hold back this groan, not this time. He looks away, jaw tightening, and asks, "Just what *else* did the OSS boys teach you?"
It's an old joke. A poor one, if he's honest, but one of their oldest. Buck knows so much, everything that's sneaky and useful.
Bucky's weight lifts as he breathes out a laugh. "CIC for this, Steve. The OSS're buncha pansies."
He has to get this joke right. "What else did the CIC teach you?"
"You'd be surprised." That's the standard response, they're on a roll like a pair of comedians, and Steve grins at the reprieve.
Bucky grins back, hair slanting across his brow, teeth shining, and it's going to be okay, Steve *knows* it's going to be just fine.
Then Bucky kisses him and that isn't standard. That isn't okay. That's -.
Hard and open, Bucky's mouth on his, tongue probing and rolling like his hips, demanding something.
Steve's fingers flex and grab when Bucky lifts again, and he drives his head back into the snow - half-expecting a hiss of steam - when bare fingers brush over his pectorals. "Buck, no."
"Well-trained," Buck whispers into his ear and this is all wrong, this is -.
"Wrong, please."
Bucky pulls back, looking him over, and Steve hears his moan tearing ragged from his sore lips. "Steve."
"I - *please*, Bucky, I can't."
Bucky's frowning, *thinking*, his hips rolling into Steve's. "Snakebite."
"I - what?" Steve's hands grab and clutch again, pulling Bucky down.
"Gotta suck it out, Steve -" Bucky's mouth on his neck, teeth scraping at the heat, letting it free, as his hand works its way between them, scratching out stuttered groans as he plucks and opens Steve's uniform pants, then his costume. "Gotta get it *out*."
Bucky knows things. Bucky moves like nobody else, all natural, no serum for him, and his pants are falling a little over Steve's hands, baring his skin against Steve's.
"Schnapps?"
"Sure," Bucky says and he's got them both in his hand, his penis hot and sticky against Steve's, rubbing and *rubbing* until red light splashes over Steve's vision.
"I don't want -"
Bucky kisses him again and Steve forgets for a second, loses all his discipline, because Bucky *knows*, and Bucky understands, and he's taking care of this, squeezing just right, his palm moving up and down, thumb circling, bringing up more sticky heat.
"You don't?" Bucky's smiling when he pulls back from the kiss. His eyes are bare in the mask's cutout, brighter than anything in the dark, fastened on Steve. He changes his hand's grip and thrusts against Steve. "You sure about that?"
"I -. Later?" Steve tries. He can't lie to Bucky. This is his partner, smart and crafty, and he wouldn't ever want to lie to him, not to Bucky. But his hands are on Bucky's rump, squeezing and spreading the cheeks, and Bucky looks beautiful like this, head falling back, mouth open and chin so sharp Steve could cut himself on it. "Later, I wanted to -."
"Of course," Bucky says, looking at Steve again. His teeth are white, his lips silver. "Later, you thought - lemme see. Romance? Take your time, wine and dine, clean sheets and the lights out, right?"
Steve nods, and is it a lie if it's the truth? Even as he shoves his hips up, against Bucky's groin, grunting when Bucky grasps his testicles and smiles as he thumbs them, twisting the hairs and letting so much heat flow right through Steve he's going to melt the whole Eastern front. It's not a lie, but it's not the truth, not really, it *can't* be.
"Make you a deal," Bucky says, kissing him again, too lightly, moving his hand back to their shafts and jerking them together. "Paris gets liberated? You get that. Slow and romantic, take all the time you need, give you *everything*."
"I -" Steve's right hand slips on Bucky's bare skin, fingertips dipping into the crack, and he can't help it, he squeezes harder and digs deeper. Bucky's panting now, lip in his teeth, rising and falling in Steve's grasp like he *likes* this. "You'd like that?"
"'course I would." Bucky's waist twists, his hand tightens and relaxes, and they're soaking the front of Steve's costume with their - excretions. "We can do it nice and slow like you want." His tongue swirls under Steve's ear and his hand moves faster, pulling it all out of Steve, almost all the way. When he bites Steve's earlobe, Steve jerks and groans; when Bucky whispers, the sound is thunder in Steve's head. "Also hard and fast, like you *need*."
"I need?" Steve echoes and Bucky's bouncing against him, with him, so lithe and graceful that Steve's always wanted to draw him, in motion and rarely still, a physical miracle, his best friend, and brother -. His belly glowing and clutching, Steve pulls one hand free and works it, agonizingly *slowly*, over the crest of Bucky's hip, between them, until his fingers brush Bucky's and they're holding on together.
Bucky nods, grins, moves faster as he laces their fingers together. "Know a lot of tricks, Steve-o. I can show 'em *all* to you -"
They involve tongues in places Steve never imagined, and fingers, too, and gymnastic moves with knees and shoulders, locking bodies together, and someday, *someday*, when they win the war, when they're *alive* again, Bucky will show him, one by one, how to move his tongue inside Bucky, how to swallow, how to hold on and push in and make him gasp just like he's doing now, make Bucky's mouth open and cheeks flare frantically, right now, clutch at Steve's neck and call him - everything right and true.
There's coal-dust inside Steve now, restless clouds and trails of fire, and Bucky's hand is small and hot, so much faster than Steve's own, and Bucky's lips are bitten, his cheeks dark and damp.
"Buck, I *want*, I gotta -"
"I know," Bucky says, and kisses him, sealing their mouths together.
Steve's hips pump into their hands, push and shove and *grind* like a damn mortar, until Bucky's murmuring against Steve's tongue and jack-rabbiting his own hips, and when Steve's release hits, it tears him open, drives his penis *up* and his hips back, and Bucky comes with him. Bucky knows where they'll fall, falls with him and carries him through the aftershocks.
Steve shakes with something more than cold, emptied out and *himself* again. It's familiar, and unwelcome, all at once, and Bucky closes his eyes as he sucks clean his fingers.
"You -" Steve tries to say. He smacks his chapped lips and trails off.
"Snakebite, brother. Nothing more."
Bucky thinks Steve needs an excuse. Steve - doesn't think. That's not his job, not his bent.
He shakes his head. "You - you're beautiful, Buck."
As he looks away, Bucky's mouth twists sardonically. "I'm a looker, sure, blondie."
His profile's sharp, silvered and dusted with coal, cheeks hollowing. His mask is perfectly black, but his skin is gritty, damp against Steve's hand.
"You are," Steve says.
Buck tips his head briefly against Steve's palm. "Never do anything I don't want to," he says. "Remember that."
"If there's nothing in it for you -" Steve says for him.
"- then it's nothing to me," Bucky finishes. His cheek moves against Steve's palm as he grins. "You're learning, brother."
"Trying," Steve says, and tugs up the coat's collar around Bucky's ear. For all his bravado and smart mouth, his grace and temper, Buck's still a kid. He needs to stay warm, needs his rest.
Much the same as Steve, come to think of it.
[end]
Author: gloss
Medium: Marvel - Captain America (Sentinel of Liberty and v.5)
Rating: Adult
Summary: "We were using the wrong strategy to win the war. Why *attack* Mussolini when Bucky could just *charm* him?"
Disclaimer: Simon and Kirby and, later, Waid and Brubaker wrote Cap and Bucky for Timely and Marvel. I do not.
Notes: Summary from CA: SoL #12. jubilancy and oneangrykate generously stoked my Cap 'n Bucky-love, and then thete1 wanted h/c cliches - "huddling for warmth" *and* "Nazi sex pollen" (I hope Nazi sex schnapps works just as well). This is for all three.
Remote Vorpommern, Germany, February 1944
They escape from the Luftwaffe officers' party by the skin of their teeth. The fireball engulfing the rec hall behind them paints the snow crimson and orange beneath the endless, black Baltic sky.
Bucky's limping as they run - he took a hit to his left knee that Steve couldn't block - and his lips are drawn back over his teeth against the pain.
"Little farther," Steve says, the words flying indistinctly into the icy wind.
Bucky tucks his chin and keeps running, almost pacing Steve. His bad leg hits the snow hollowly.
"Hey -" Steve whacks Bucky's shoulder before leaping over a hillock and yanking Bucky up with him. "You with me, partner?"
"Never doubt it."
Bucky huffs behind him as they run toward the horizon, the sounds of explosions and gunfire fading in the distance.
Steve leaps over a narrow, icy river and sways a little on his feet, waiting for Bucky to wade through. Around him, the night expands in the cold, a black curtain snapping open like something from a vaudeville magician's hand.
"Good," Steve hears himself reply, later than he'd meant, and he grabs at his own throat, at the heat shaping itself into pebbles and blades within. "Don't think -. *Uh* - those schnapps -" Falling to one knee, he winces, remembering Bucky's pain as his own. "- didn't agree with me."
The black gleams as Bucky shouts at him - the black condenses, maybe into stars, bright-whirling things, as it spreads over him.
*
Someone's slapping Steve's cheeks. Rhythmically, bringing up a flush that does not cease, that just gets hotter. It's cold everywhere except under his own skin; there, it's hot as a furnace, getting warmer. He thinks the glow coming off him might blind him, and he squints as he sits up.
His head bangs something crumbly and cold, hard but -.
"Cold -"
Bucky kneels next to him, hand pulled back for another slap. "Cap?"
"Cold," Steve says again. When he rubs his smarting head, his hand comes away wet. Water, not blood, thank heaven. "Hot."
Bucky frowns a little, the mask wrinkling over the bridge of his nose. "And...?"
"Where -?" The space is close, and dark, but the cold is bigger than that. He's burning inside, but none of the heat's making it out -. Steve shakes his head, hard, but only gets a rush of vertigo for his trouble.
"Snow cave," Bucky says as he presses Steve's shoulder back, until he's half-reclining again. The heat inside his skin flares up to meet Bucky's touch. "You took a whammy there, Cap."
"Huh." Steve jabs experimentally at his own jaw. No flare. He grabs Buck's wrist - *there* it is, a gritty surge of heat. "Oh."
Bucky slips his hand free. "Want to try some two-syllable words now?"
Steve looks around again; while he was out, Buck built them a real snug little shelter. His shield forms the roof, criss-crossed with fir branches and packed with snow. At his feet, the snow is tramped down hard and he's sitting on a little ledge.
When he reaches to push a fir twig back in place, he realizes he's back in his field uniform, wool greatcoat and all. A little bewildered - how long was he out for? - he plucks at the lapel. "Uniform?"
"That's three syllables. Easy, brother." Bucky grins, quick and sharp. "Costume's on underneath. Just never know who's going to answer the radio call."
"Oh. Oh, of course." When Steve shifts, he *can* feel his costume under his field drab. He's just having trouble - it's hot, and then cold. Hard to think.
Buck's still wearing his mask, his thin field jacket pulled tight around his neck.
Steve smacks his lips. "But you -. You're -"
"Bucky's the name." The grin this time is wider, a little slower, and Steve grins back.
"Not concussed, wisenheimer. Just -" *Hot*, but he already said that. "You're cold."
Bucky shakes his head, but he's shivering, arms wrapped tight around his chest, hands in his pits, as he bounces on his heels. "Nope."
"You're a bad liar."
Bucky grins again. "*Excellent* liar, as a matter of fact."
"You're *cold*."
"Nothing special."
"Saints *alive*, Buck. Can't lie to *me*."
Bucky slows his bouncing until he is, finally, still. "Don't suppose I can."
This must count as a victory of some sort. "Right."
Steve fumbles at the buttons on his overcoat. When Bucky's hand covers his, another flare of heat at the contact claws up Steve's throat. He shakes off the touch, swallowing down the groan, and manages to open the last button.
"What're you doing, Cap?" Bucky's head is tilted, cheek resting against his shoulder. He sounds truly curious, looks like an alleycat sizing up its dinner. "Keep that coat on."
"Not taking it off." Steve flaps open the coat and wiggles back. "Get in."
"What?"
Steve spreads his legs a little, makes sure the coat's tails cover the snow, and repeats himself.
Bucky looks down, then up at the shield. "Sheesh, Cap, I'm -"
"Buck."
"What?"
"Cold out here. Armstrong's boys won't get through the storm til morning. Get. In."
Bucky's face - everything - glows a little, monochrome, like they're up on the screen in some movie palace. Like he's lit from the inside. After a beat, after thinking it over - Steve always knows *when* Bucky's thinking, just hardly ever *what* - he shrugs and rolls to his feet in a single fluid movement. The kind of movement Steve can't ever hope to match, no matter how many Vita-Rays he might take in.
"You're loony," Bucky says, turning around to back up into the space between Steve's legs.
"Other way -" Steve almost grunts again when Bucky twists and brushes his thigh. It must be the cold; there's no other reason for every touch shooting through him like this. The cold, and those damned schnapps the fraulein kept pressing on him.
Over his shoulder, Bucky shoots him a narrow-eyed look. "Face to face?"
"Want to -" Steve's head thunks against the snow as Bucky twists, descends, *settles* against his chest. He recovers quickly, but his skin's still lit up like San Gennaro, twinkling and yearning with heat. Bucky starts to draw back, but Steve wraps his arm around Bucky's skinny waist and pulls him in. "Heavier," he says hoarsely, lying only because he doesn't know what else to say. "Surprised me."
"Haven't put on more than five pounds since basic," Bucky says. His breath blooms against Steve's neck. "You sure you're all right?"
"Cold." Steve buttons the coat over Bucky's back. His hands are working without his permission, leaving bright red trails as they move. It's a tight fit, but he gets them all fastened. "There. All -" He grits his teeth when Bucky shifts his weight. "All set."
"Huh," Bucky says doubtfully.
"You set?"
"Warmer."
"Good," Steve says and tries not to sound as smug as he feels.
"I was just fine before."
"Sure you were, kiddo. Sure you were."
He's touched Buck plenty of times - held him as they parachuted behind enemy lines, carried him to the medic's cart, slung him in a fireman's hold and spun around fast, just for kicks.
So this snug little operation they've worked up here, this shouldn't feel any different. No, sir, no different.
Except for the fact that he's got a furnace glowing bright in his belly and firecrackers shooting off every which way in his limbs. He's half-sure he can *feel* every shift of Buck's bones, every smooth slide of his muscles. His head's filling with smoke and his pores are dilating, venting heat just as fast as they're trying to suck Bucky *in*.
"Cap?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"Sure you're not -?"
Bucky's mouth is silver in the dark. He needs to warm up.
*Steve* needs to warm him up.
That's not *his* thought. That's the - schnapps. Or furnace. Not him.
"No. I mean - I'm -" It takes some doing, grinding his teeth together against the groaning heat, but Steve worms his arms out of the coat sleeves and brings them around Bucky's waist. "There. Better."
Bucky bites his lower lip and sucks briefly. "...right."
"Effects of the cold, Barnes. Better if we -"
Bucky's laugh is the sharpest, warmest thing, breaking against Steve's neck. "Better if we *spoon*?"
"Long as we don't fork," Steve says as lightly as he can.
Not lightly enough. Bucky looks him over, mouth drawn tight and dark as his mask, eyes flickering.
Steve gulps. "Joke?"
There's no room inside the coat, their faces are too close to see very clearly. But Bucky's flexible, as strong as he is skinny, and here he is *shifting* again, left hand on Steve's chest, his hips moving in a slow, thoughtful roll.
"Was it? A joke?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost absent-minded, but he's looking at - maybe *into* - Steve. Same way he looks at sentries before he draws the knife, same way he looks at the dead fallen in the snow. Fierce and still, pre-explosive.
And his hips and belly are pushing, *kneading*, more heat into Steve's groin.
"I -" Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He can't hide from Bucky behind his lids, but he tries anyway. Never could hide from Bucky, never worth bothering to try. Not back at Lehigh, in its tents, definitely not now, not after everything they've seen and done.
"Steve." A roll, little gust of breath, brush of something - lips, maybe, mercury-cool and bright, over his jaw.
"Schnapps," Steve gets out, trying to ignore the clattering riot of the furnace in his skin, the tendrils and choking kudzu of heat, insisting he grab Bucky, roll them over, warm him up everywhere. "Too much schnapps."
"You can't get drunk, Steve."
"Special schnapps," Steve insists. Has to insist, because - because.
"Maybe," Bucky says, using the tone that's always meant, No earthly way, Rogers, you big goof, but we'll play your game. "Maybe."
Steve's hands are on Bucky's waist. He's trying not to clutch as hard as he can. His palms are bare, pressed against the sliding planes and pulling ropes of Bucky's movements.
It's a code in and of itself, how Bucky moves, why and when.
When Bucky twists at the waist, just a little, then pushes forward, his knees tightening around Steve's own waist, it's - bright and smoky and *huge*.
Steve can't hold back this groan, not this time. He looks away, jaw tightening, and asks, "Just what *else* did the OSS boys teach you?"
It's an old joke. A poor one, if he's honest, but one of their oldest. Buck knows so much, everything that's sneaky and useful.
Bucky's weight lifts as he breathes out a laugh. "CIC for this, Steve. The OSS're buncha pansies."
He has to get this joke right. "What else did the CIC teach you?"
"You'd be surprised." That's the standard response, they're on a roll like a pair of comedians, and Steve grins at the reprieve.
Bucky grins back, hair slanting across his brow, teeth shining, and it's going to be okay, Steve *knows* it's going to be just fine.
Then Bucky kisses him and that isn't standard. That isn't okay. That's -.
Hard and open, Bucky's mouth on his, tongue probing and rolling like his hips, demanding something.
Steve's fingers flex and grab when Bucky lifts again, and he drives his head back into the snow - half-expecting a hiss of steam - when bare fingers brush over his pectorals. "Buck, no."
"Well-trained," Buck whispers into his ear and this is all wrong, this is -.
"Wrong, please."
Bucky pulls back, looking him over, and Steve hears his moan tearing ragged from his sore lips. "Steve."
"I - *please*, Bucky, I can't."
Bucky's frowning, *thinking*, his hips rolling into Steve's. "Snakebite."
"I - what?" Steve's hands grab and clutch again, pulling Bucky down.
"Gotta suck it out, Steve -" Bucky's mouth on his neck, teeth scraping at the heat, letting it free, as his hand works its way between them, scratching out stuttered groans as he plucks and opens Steve's uniform pants, then his costume. "Gotta get it *out*."
Bucky knows things. Bucky moves like nobody else, all natural, no serum for him, and his pants are falling a little over Steve's hands, baring his skin against Steve's.
"Schnapps?"
"Sure," Bucky says and he's got them both in his hand, his penis hot and sticky against Steve's, rubbing and *rubbing* until red light splashes over Steve's vision.
"I don't want -"
Bucky kisses him again and Steve forgets for a second, loses all his discipline, because Bucky *knows*, and Bucky understands, and he's taking care of this, squeezing just right, his palm moving up and down, thumb circling, bringing up more sticky heat.
"You don't?" Bucky's smiling when he pulls back from the kiss. His eyes are bare in the mask's cutout, brighter than anything in the dark, fastened on Steve. He changes his hand's grip and thrusts against Steve. "You sure about that?"
"I -. Later?" Steve tries. He can't lie to Bucky. This is his partner, smart and crafty, and he wouldn't ever want to lie to him, not to Bucky. But his hands are on Bucky's rump, squeezing and spreading the cheeks, and Bucky looks beautiful like this, head falling back, mouth open and chin so sharp Steve could cut himself on it. "Later, I wanted to -."
"Of course," Bucky says, looking at Steve again. His teeth are white, his lips silver. "Later, you thought - lemme see. Romance? Take your time, wine and dine, clean sheets and the lights out, right?"
Steve nods, and is it a lie if it's the truth? Even as he shoves his hips up, against Bucky's groin, grunting when Bucky grasps his testicles and smiles as he thumbs them, twisting the hairs and letting so much heat flow right through Steve he's going to melt the whole Eastern front. It's not a lie, but it's not the truth, not really, it *can't* be.
"Make you a deal," Bucky says, kissing him again, too lightly, moving his hand back to their shafts and jerking them together. "Paris gets liberated? You get that. Slow and romantic, take all the time you need, give you *everything*."
"I -" Steve's right hand slips on Bucky's bare skin, fingertips dipping into the crack, and he can't help it, he squeezes harder and digs deeper. Bucky's panting now, lip in his teeth, rising and falling in Steve's grasp like he *likes* this. "You'd like that?"
"'course I would." Bucky's waist twists, his hand tightens and relaxes, and they're soaking the front of Steve's costume with their - excretions. "We can do it nice and slow like you want." His tongue swirls under Steve's ear and his hand moves faster, pulling it all out of Steve, almost all the way. When he bites Steve's earlobe, Steve jerks and groans; when Bucky whispers, the sound is thunder in Steve's head. "Also hard and fast, like you *need*."
"I need?" Steve echoes and Bucky's bouncing against him, with him, so lithe and graceful that Steve's always wanted to draw him, in motion and rarely still, a physical miracle, his best friend, and brother -. His belly glowing and clutching, Steve pulls one hand free and works it, agonizingly *slowly*, over the crest of Bucky's hip, between them, until his fingers brush Bucky's and they're holding on together.
Bucky nods, grins, moves faster as he laces their fingers together. "Know a lot of tricks, Steve-o. I can show 'em *all* to you -"
They involve tongues in places Steve never imagined, and fingers, too, and gymnastic moves with knees and shoulders, locking bodies together, and someday, *someday*, when they win the war, when they're *alive* again, Bucky will show him, one by one, how to move his tongue inside Bucky, how to swallow, how to hold on and push in and make him gasp just like he's doing now, make Bucky's mouth open and cheeks flare frantically, right now, clutch at Steve's neck and call him - everything right and true.
There's coal-dust inside Steve now, restless clouds and trails of fire, and Bucky's hand is small and hot, so much faster than Steve's own, and Bucky's lips are bitten, his cheeks dark and damp.
"Buck, I *want*, I gotta -"
"I know," Bucky says, and kisses him, sealing their mouths together.
Steve's hips pump into their hands, push and shove and *grind* like a damn mortar, until Bucky's murmuring against Steve's tongue and jack-rabbiting his own hips, and when Steve's release hits, it tears him open, drives his penis *up* and his hips back, and Bucky comes with him. Bucky knows where they'll fall, falls with him and carries him through the aftershocks.
Steve shakes with something more than cold, emptied out and *himself* again. It's familiar, and unwelcome, all at once, and Bucky closes his eyes as he sucks clean his fingers.
"You -" Steve tries to say. He smacks his chapped lips and trails off.
"Snakebite, brother. Nothing more."
Bucky thinks Steve needs an excuse. Steve - doesn't think. That's not his job, not his bent.
He shakes his head. "You - you're beautiful, Buck."
As he looks away, Bucky's mouth twists sardonically. "I'm a looker, sure, blondie."
His profile's sharp, silvered and dusted with coal, cheeks hollowing. His mask is perfectly black, but his skin is gritty, damp against Steve's hand.
"You are," Steve says.
Buck tips his head briefly against Steve's palm. "Never do anything I don't want to," he says. "Remember that."
"If there's nothing in it for you -" Steve says for him.
"- then it's nothing to me," Bucky finishes. His cheek moves against Steve's palm as he grins. "You're learning, brother."
"Trying," Steve says, and tugs up the coat's collar around Bucky's ear. For all his bravado and smart mouth, his grace and temper, Buck's still a kid. He needs to stay warm, needs his rest.
Much the same as Steve, come to think of it.
[end]