[fic] Cutthroat (Bucky/Fury, adult)
Title: Cutthroat
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Nick Fury
Rating: Adult
Summary: "The one eyed jack across the railroad tracks pulled a stranger passing through/he was a juvenile delinquent never learned how to behave."
Setting/spoilers: CA v.5 #25+.
Disclaimer: Marvel, not me.
Notes: Can be considered a sequel (authorized, to boot) to Jube's Back in the Day. Summary from Tom Waits, "Burma-Shave". G. turned an eagle eye on this. For Jube; who else?
Nick Fury was everywhere and nowhere at once. Each borough had a bolthole, save for Staten Island; Manhattan sported at least eight. Fury's safehouse in Queens was down a long residential street, lined with bungalows and six-storey apartment buildings, on the top floor of another apartment building.
Bucky broke in with a screwdriver and his knife. The ease of the operation suggested that he was, if not expected, at least welcome.
After downing three frozen meals, he took a shower.
He was towelling off, head back and eyes closed, when a gun's muzzle dug into the small of his back, a knife-blade flattened down the side of his hip.
"Evening," Bucky said.
"Why the hell didn't you turn on the lights?" Fury holstered his gun and knife. Over his shoulder, just before he flipped the switch and the room blazed with light, he added, "Rationing went out with iceboxes, kiddo."
Bucky dressed rapidly. The warmth of the shower had dispersed before his shirt was buttoned all the way; now his skin was as clammy as the metal arm.
Highball in hand as he returned from the kitchenette, Fury paused to tap the star on the metal arm. He sat in a large leather chair, popping a lever on the side until he reclined.
"Feel better?" Fury sucked an ice cube, scratching at his stubble.
He meant the shower and food; still, Bucky couldn't answer the question.
Fury looked as exhausted as he ever had from behind a bad poker hand in the hold of a B-17 jolting over Vichy. Eye stained scarlet, capillary threads bright among the salt-and-pepper stubble, smudgy shadows hollowing his cheeks.
The safehouse was underfurnished and anonymous. Its few possessions, however, spoke of its occasional occupant. In the bathroom, still fragrant with sandalwood steam, Bucky soaked two towels in hot water and retrieved the necessary tools.
Fury grunted and rolled his eye as Bucky wrapped the first towel around his neck. From beneath the second, resting over his face, Fury said, "Infinity formula beats any Russkie mummification tech, y'know."
In the kitchen, Bucky filled the single pot with more hot water. When he rejoined Fury, the towel over his face had shifted just enough to admit the butt of a cigar.
Bucky swept the blunt brush counter-clockwise over the tin of soap until the lather looked rich and right. He stropped the razor several times before plucking the cigar free and uncovering Fury's face.
Eye closed -- the lashes curling on his cheek -- and mouth almost relaxed, Fury could have been asleep.
"Sergeant," Bucky said. He tipped Fury's face up and to the side, working the brush over his cheekbones, down his throat.
"Barnes," Fury replied, just as softly. His lashes fluttered when Buck snapped open the razor and stropped it one last time. "If this is some kinda assassination --"
Bucky pressed the tip of the razor against Fury's lower lip. "Nothing."
Fury grunted; he couldn't see the smile Bucky felt spread, then vanish. The sound trailed off as Bucky drew the blade through the lather.
He worked carefully, but not slowly. He'd done this hundreds of times at Lehigh, well before he was ever officially recruited. The rhythm returned to him immediately, slick and light, a jig of alternating angles. He swept the razor across Fury's jaw, curving down his throat, exposing pale skin.
He rested the blade perpendicular to Fury's throat. A little more pressure, and the skin would part softer than fruit. Blood could run, welling before it arced.
The star on his arm was insurance against that instinct.
The razor's blade caught the reflection of the ornate ceiling fixture and spun it to shards.
Fury breathed deeply through his nose as Bucky flicked the razor over his upper lip, then the jut of his chin.
"Do I wanna know what prompted this?" Fury asked as Bucky soaked the brush, then beat the soap back to a lather.
"Got to take care of yourself," Bucky said.
Lather swirled over half of Fury's face before he spoke again. "Chimps. They groom each other."
"Uh-huh." Bucky spread the foam across the rest of Fury's face, rinsed and stropped the razor, and started again.
As with everything else, Fury had a theory on this. Men share secrets in a barber's chair. A barber, he's like a bartender, only more intimate. A bartender slakes your thirst, maybe even, temporarily, your loneliness, but he doesn't touch you.
A barber, though. He could leave you smooth as a newborn baby's ass just as easily as he could slice your head off.
"You don't say." Bucky rinsed off the razor.
"Am I right?"
"You're right. Now shut up." He snicked the blade through the lather. "Fucks up the angle when you talk."
"Hmph," Nick said during the next rinse. "Such language."
"Sssh."
"Hmph."
When he was nearly finished, Bucky skimmed his human index finger across Nick's cheek to test the shave.
"Almost done, Barnes? Ain't gonna get any prettier here, believe you me."
Bucky leaned down Fury's good side. "Only one way to tell."
Fury did not move. Bucky brushed his lips down Fury's jaw, into the hollow of his throat. The skin was perfectly smooth.
By all rights, it should been crepey, heavily jowled, *dead* by now.
Bucky ought not to have been able to bend this easily.
They both should have been in the ground.
Like the others. Like Steve.
"Hell're you doin'?" Nick's demand came too late.
"Checking." Bucky's tongue flicked over the Adam's apple.
Nick's pulse did not change. His voice went raspier. "They sure trained you up good."
Karpov taught him the kiss-test. Like the crunch of pickled radish and slop of jam in hot tea, this particular sense-memory, skin on lips, stubble's absence, belonged to his time with Karpov.
He believed, though, that Steve would have gotten a kick out of the test.
"You've got my files."
"Among others." Fury's arm slid like a snake around Bucky's waist. "Still don't answer why you're going mama-chimp on old Fury."
Bucky didn't have any answers; Fury knew that almost as well as he.
He braced his metal hand on the side of the chair -- its frame creaked -- and folded his human hand into a loose fist. His knuckles brushed over Fury's jaw, down his throat. Down, down, the length of his torso.
When they reached his groin, Fury grunted. He lifted his hips when Bucky flicked open the button on his pants. Grunted again when Bucky yanked down BVDs and trousers together to his thighs.
"Gotta take *care* of yourself." Bucky thought he might be quoting. Who, he didn't know. "Better care."
Fury's arm tightened around his waist as his feet hit the floor. The chair snapped upright; his cock pushed up into Bucky's palm. "Do okay."
Bucky could have easily broken the hold, then sunk to his knees.
That was how these things went, from Lehigh to Siberia, Kabul to Manhattan. Points in between: Steve's shocked embrace, Toro's asbestos mildness. Parisians, Finns, Russians and Georgians.
Fury, however. Nick. Even as Bucky's mouth remembered the burn and weight of a shaft, even as saliva sprang up in anticipation, Fury did things his own way.
His pubic hair, the curls on his thighs, were silver-white. Snowy. Bucky's hand stood out, nearly as dark as Nick's shaft. Nick licked the spit from Bucky's mouth, shoved his free hand into Bucky's hair, twining it between his fingers, too short to pull. He kissed deeply, slick with cigar-stink, hungry, relentless.
Fury twisted closer, tongue pushing, as Bucky jacked him.
Bucky's fingers played over Nick's testicles, dragging them aside, pulling them down. Each drag brought out a whine he swallowed down from Nick's mouth, sped his hand faster up the shaft, damp and quick, the heat radiating into his own skeleton.
Fury fucked Bucky's fist, made love to his mouth.
He came with a shudder and sharp bite, bouncing back -- away -- against the chair.
"Multiple talents," Fury said and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He'd said it many times before.
Come-droplets shone, then dimmed, on Bucky's pants. He reached for a towel.
Shaking his head, Nick grabbed Bucky's wrist. "Freakin' mess, sonny boy." He licked clean Bucky's palm, tongue broad as a dog's, then guided the hand down to Bucky's side. "What'm I gonna do with you?"
Bucky uncrooked metal fingers from the chair and straightened up on shaky legs. "Bay rum," he said. "Royal Lyme."
Nick squinted. "Aftershaves for a hundred, Art?"
"Never do a job halfway," Bucky said.
"Ain't worth doin'," Nick replied. "'Less you --"
"Do it all the way." Bucky's knees locked when Nick rapped his knuckles over his erection. "Don't."
"Not just mama-chimps, neither. Courtship." Nick lit the cigar, puffing as enthusiastically as he'd kissed. In light of the flame, he winked. "You courting me, Barnes?"
Bucky thought of the tracer he'd found on his belt buckle, just an hour after he'd last left Fury. Thought, too, of the shield on his arm, Steve's shield. Totems and fetishes that made their own magic: You belong to me.
I remember you.
Locks of hair, teeth rattling on chains, trophies and attempts at memories. Like Samson and Delilah, his own hair curling over Fury's floor.
Bucky opened his pants with the metal hand.
"Big boy," Fury said lowly. He balanced the cigar on the arm of the chair, then leaned in. His lips were dry, his face smooth, against Bucky's thigh, then the head of his dick. His breath came damp, made Bucky rock on his heels. "Big, healthy, *handsome* kid, huh?"
He was talking about someone else. Bucky didn't need to reply.
"Y'know, I'm a cheap date," Fury added, gaze flickering up before his jaw cracked open and he took Bucky in. It sounded like a promise, almost a secret.
Bucky choked on a laugh that became a gasp. His thumb curved into the white hair on Nick's temple, his fingers clutching at the darker hairs further back. At night, blood on snow looks just like this, glitters of darkness, stars in absence.
Even when he closed his eyes, nothing changed. But he rocked harder, pushing deeper, and the chair's upholstery sighed under Nick. Heat surrounded him, withdrew, tugged him forward, tempting and promising. It quivered around him, scrolling off Nick's tongue, spreading into his groin.
The back of the chair cracked under the metal hand's grip as Bucky thrust three final times. Nick roared, rearing back, choked for air. Come splattered his eyepatch, cheeks, ran down his throat.
"Guess I had that comin'," he said, wiping clean.
Bucky dropped to a crouch, pressed his thumb to the corner of Nick's mouth. "Missed a spot."
His skin shivered -- his *body* shivered, down to the bones -- and Bucky recognized this feeling. Time to run again, get a move on, go ghost.
"What you're for, ain't it?" Nick cocked his head and relit the cigar. He wriggled in his seat, sighing like an old man as he got comfortable. "How'd the Baxter building recon go?"
Bucky pulled up his pants and settled into a comfortable crouch to make his report. Nick reclined, bare-assed, cock soft against his leg in its nest of snowy fuzz, eye closed and smoke curling, listening. Offering criticism.
This much, Bucky remembered. It might've been enough.
[end]
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Nick Fury
Rating: Adult
Summary: "The one eyed jack across the railroad tracks pulled a stranger passing through/he was a juvenile delinquent never learned how to behave."
Setting/spoilers: CA v.5 #25+.
Disclaimer: Marvel, not me.
Notes: Can be considered a sequel (authorized, to boot) to Jube's Back in the Day. Summary from Tom Waits, "Burma-Shave". G. turned an eagle eye on this. For Jube; who else?
Nick Fury was everywhere and nowhere at once. Each borough had a bolthole, save for Staten Island; Manhattan sported at least eight. Fury's safehouse in Queens was down a long residential street, lined with bungalows and six-storey apartment buildings, on the top floor of another apartment building.
Bucky broke in with a screwdriver and his knife. The ease of the operation suggested that he was, if not expected, at least welcome.
After downing three frozen meals, he took a shower.
He was towelling off, head back and eyes closed, when a gun's muzzle dug into the small of his back, a knife-blade flattened down the side of his hip.
"Evening," Bucky said.
"Why the hell didn't you turn on the lights?" Fury holstered his gun and knife. Over his shoulder, just before he flipped the switch and the room blazed with light, he added, "Rationing went out with iceboxes, kiddo."
Bucky dressed rapidly. The warmth of the shower had dispersed before his shirt was buttoned all the way; now his skin was as clammy as the metal arm.
Highball in hand as he returned from the kitchenette, Fury paused to tap the star on the metal arm. He sat in a large leather chair, popping a lever on the side until he reclined.
"Feel better?" Fury sucked an ice cube, scratching at his stubble.
He meant the shower and food; still, Bucky couldn't answer the question.
Fury looked as exhausted as he ever had from behind a bad poker hand in the hold of a B-17 jolting over Vichy. Eye stained scarlet, capillary threads bright among the salt-and-pepper stubble, smudgy shadows hollowing his cheeks.
The safehouse was underfurnished and anonymous. Its few possessions, however, spoke of its occasional occupant. In the bathroom, still fragrant with sandalwood steam, Bucky soaked two towels in hot water and retrieved the necessary tools.
Fury grunted and rolled his eye as Bucky wrapped the first towel around his neck. From beneath the second, resting over his face, Fury said, "Infinity formula beats any Russkie mummification tech, y'know."
In the kitchen, Bucky filled the single pot with more hot water. When he rejoined Fury, the towel over his face had shifted just enough to admit the butt of a cigar.
Bucky swept the blunt brush counter-clockwise over the tin of soap until the lather looked rich and right. He stropped the razor several times before plucking the cigar free and uncovering Fury's face.
Eye closed -- the lashes curling on his cheek -- and mouth almost relaxed, Fury could have been asleep.
"Sergeant," Bucky said. He tipped Fury's face up and to the side, working the brush over his cheekbones, down his throat.
"Barnes," Fury replied, just as softly. His lashes fluttered when Buck snapped open the razor and stropped it one last time. "If this is some kinda assassination --"
Bucky pressed the tip of the razor against Fury's lower lip. "Nothing."
Fury grunted; he couldn't see the smile Bucky felt spread, then vanish. The sound trailed off as Bucky drew the blade through the lather.
He worked carefully, but not slowly. He'd done this hundreds of times at Lehigh, well before he was ever officially recruited. The rhythm returned to him immediately, slick and light, a jig of alternating angles. He swept the razor across Fury's jaw, curving down his throat, exposing pale skin.
He rested the blade perpendicular to Fury's throat. A little more pressure, and the skin would part softer than fruit. Blood could run, welling before it arced.
The star on his arm was insurance against that instinct.
The razor's blade caught the reflection of the ornate ceiling fixture and spun it to shards.
Fury breathed deeply through his nose as Bucky flicked the razor over his upper lip, then the jut of his chin.
"Do I wanna know what prompted this?" Fury asked as Bucky soaked the brush, then beat the soap back to a lather.
"Got to take care of yourself," Bucky said.
Lather swirled over half of Fury's face before he spoke again. "Chimps. They groom each other."
"Uh-huh." Bucky spread the foam across the rest of Fury's face, rinsed and stropped the razor, and started again.
As with everything else, Fury had a theory on this. Men share secrets in a barber's chair. A barber, he's like a bartender, only more intimate. A bartender slakes your thirst, maybe even, temporarily, your loneliness, but he doesn't touch you.
A barber, though. He could leave you smooth as a newborn baby's ass just as easily as he could slice your head off.
"You don't say." Bucky rinsed off the razor.
"Am I right?"
"You're right. Now shut up." He snicked the blade through the lather. "Fucks up the angle when you talk."
"Hmph," Nick said during the next rinse. "Such language."
"Sssh."
"Hmph."
When he was nearly finished, Bucky skimmed his human index finger across Nick's cheek to test the shave.
"Almost done, Barnes? Ain't gonna get any prettier here, believe you me."
Bucky leaned down Fury's good side. "Only one way to tell."
Fury did not move. Bucky brushed his lips down Fury's jaw, into the hollow of his throat. The skin was perfectly smooth.
By all rights, it should been crepey, heavily jowled, *dead* by now.
Bucky ought not to have been able to bend this easily.
They both should have been in the ground.
Like the others. Like Steve.
"Hell're you doin'?" Nick's demand came too late.
"Checking." Bucky's tongue flicked over the Adam's apple.
Nick's pulse did not change. His voice went raspier. "They sure trained you up good."
Karpov taught him the kiss-test. Like the crunch of pickled radish and slop of jam in hot tea, this particular sense-memory, skin on lips, stubble's absence, belonged to his time with Karpov.
He believed, though, that Steve would have gotten a kick out of the test.
"You've got my files."
"Among others." Fury's arm slid like a snake around Bucky's waist. "Still don't answer why you're going mama-chimp on old Fury."
Bucky didn't have any answers; Fury knew that almost as well as he.
He braced his metal hand on the side of the chair -- its frame creaked -- and folded his human hand into a loose fist. His knuckles brushed over Fury's jaw, down his throat. Down, down, the length of his torso.
When they reached his groin, Fury grunted. He lifted his hips when Bucky flicked open the button on his pants. Grunted again when Bucky yanked down BVDs and trousers together to his thighs.
"Gotta take *care* of yourself." Bucky thought he might be quoting. Who, he didn't know. "Better care."
Fury's arm tightened around his waist as his feet hit the floor. The chair snapped upright; his cock pushed up into Bucky's palm. "Do okay."
Bucky could have easily broken the hold, then sunk to his knees.
That was how these things went, from Lehigh to Siberia, Kabul to Manhattan. Points in between: Steve's shocked embrace, Toro's asbestos mildness. Parisians, Finns, Russians and Georgians.
Fury, however. Nick. Even as Bucky's mouth remembered the burn and weight of a shaft, even as saliva sprang up in anticipation, Fury did things his own way.
His pubic hair, the curls on his thighs, were silver-white. Snowy. Bucky's hand stood out, nearly as dark as Nick's shaft. Nick licked the spit from Bucky's mouth, shoved his free hand into Bucky's hair, twining it between his fingers, too short to pull. He kissed deeply, slick with cigar-stink, hungry, relentless.
Fury twisted closer, tongue pushing, as Bucky jacked him.
Bucky's fingers played over Nick's testicles, dragging them aside, pulling them down. Each drag brought out a whine he swallowed down from Nick's mouth, sped his hand faster up the shaft, damp and quick, the heat radiating into his own skeleton.
Fury fucked Bucky's fist, made love to his mouth.
He came with a shudder and sharp bite, bouncing back -- away -- against the chair.
"Multiple talents," Fury said and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He'd said it many times before.
Come-droplets shone, then dimmed, on Bucky's pants. He reached for a towel.
Shaking his head, Nick grabbed Bucky's wrist. "Freakin' mess, sonny boy." He licked clean Bucky's palm, tongue broad as a dog's, then guided the hand down to Bucky's side. "What'm I gonna do with you?"
Bucky uncrooked metal fingers from the chair and straightened up on shaky legs. "Bay rum," he said. "Royal Lyme."
Nick squinted. "Aftershaves for a hundred, Art?"
"Never do a job halfway," Bucky said.
"Ain't worth doin'," Nick replied. "'Less you --"
"Do it all the way." Bucky's knees locked when Nick rapped his knuckles over his erection. "Don't."
"Not just mama-chimps, neither. Courtship." Nick lit the cigar, puffing as enthusiastically as he'd kissed. In light of the flame, he winked. "You courting me, Barnes?"
Bucky thought of the tracer he'd found on his belt buckle, just an hour after he'd last left Fury. Thought, too, of the shield on his arm, Steve's shield. Totems and fetishes that made their own magic: You belong to me.
I remember you.
Locks of hair, teeth rattling on chains, trophies and attempts at memories. Like Samson and Delilah, his own hair curling over Fury's floor.
Bucky opened his pants with the metal hand.
"Big boy," Fury said lowly. He balanced the cigar on the arm of the chair, then leaned in. His lips were dry, his face smooth, against Bucky's thigh, then the head of his dick. His breath came damp, made Bucky rock on his heels. "Big, healthy, *handsome* kid, huh?"
He was talking about someone else. Bucky didn't need to reply.
"Y'know, I'm a cheap date," Fury added, gaze flickering up before his jaw cracked open and he took Bucky in. It sounded like a promise, almost a secret.
Bucky choked on a laugh that became a gasp. His thumb curved into the white hair on Nick's temple, his fingers clutching at the darker hairs further back. At night, blood on snow looks just like this, glitters of darkness, stars in absence.
Even when he closed his eyes, nothing changed. But he rocked harder, pushing deeper, and the chair's upholstery sighed under Nick. Heat surrounded him, withdrew, tugged him forward, tempting and promising. It quivered around him, scrolling off Nick's tongue, spreading into his groin.
The back of the chair cracked under the metal hand's grip as Bucky thrust three final times. Nick roared, rearing back, choked for air. Come splattered his eyepatch, cheeks, ran down his throat.
"Guess I had that comin'," he said, wiping clean.
Bucky dropped to a crouch, pressed his thumb to the corner of Nick's mouth. "Missed a spot."
His skin shivered -- his *body* shivered, down to the bones -- and Bucky recognized this feeling. Time to run again, get a move on, go ghost.
"What you're for, ain't it?" Nick cocked his head and relit the cigar. He wriggled in his seat, sighing like an old man as he got comfortable. "How'd the Baxter building recon go?"
Bucky pulled up his pants and settled into a comfortable crouch to make his report. Nick reclined, bare-assed, cock soft against his leg in its nest of snowy fuzz, eye closed and smoke curling, listening. Offering criticism.
This much, Bucky remembered. It might've been enough.
[end]