From Darkness

Thirty-Two

After we got everything put away, Bucky walked me through everything else he picked up. He settled on basic necessities like hygiene products and cleaning supplies. The only thing he went out of the way for was a sleeping bag for us to use as a blanket. And it was pretty obvious he'd only gotten it for me. I tried to explain that he didn't have to, but he just grunted and went to make a bed with our meager covers. I sat on the floor across from him with my legs crossed. I was still holding the newspaper article, but I was having difficulty keeping my eyes off him.

The mattress was on the floor. He was doing an awful lot of bending.

He turned back around and spotted me. Then he plopped onto the mattress and patted the spot beside him. I went to his side and sat down.

"Can you read it to me?" I asked, handing the newspaper over.

"It's not very interesting, I promise," he informed me as he took it.

"I don't care."

So he got to work translating it for me as best he could. He was right; it was dull. Just about how Stark intended to fund and build a new facility for the Avengers. There was no word on a location or any real details since it was apparently very top secret. He would be bringing in new staff, which is what was happening in the picture even though Graham wasn't named. When he finished, he handed the newspaper back out, and I folded it back up.

"You were right," I said. "That was really boring. Nice to hear something from home, though. They look happy."

"Graham looks uncomfortable," he remarked.

"He does. But I don't know if it's because he's shaking hands with Iron Man or because Tony is holding him hostage."

"Hard to tell with that kid." I turned toward him and ran my hand over the blanket.

"Bed looks nice." He did the same, leaning back on his arm as he looked it over.

"Sure," he said. "For a piece of shit."

"Don't even worry about it. You know, when I first got my house, I had literally nothing for like six whole months. I slept on that futon mattress and nothing else. Not even a frame. I used to eat with the plastic utensils I collected from ordering takeout. Usually out of margarine containers. I used the lid for a plate." He smiled.

"How did that work out?"

"It didn't. I ended up melting them in the microwave." He smiled.

"We'll have to work on your Romanian."

"Yeah, I don't know if I'll be any good." He shrugged.

"You'd be surprised. Being multilingual already gives you an advantage. Especially with Romance languages."

"I'll figure it out. We'll manage." He leaned forward, lifted his knees, and crossed his arms over them. He surveyed the small apartment. There was only one light built into the wall that didn't have a lightbulb when we got there. Now it was lit, the only source of light in the entire room. It was full of dark shadows.

"Somehow, this makes me feel guilty," he told me. I ran my hand down his back. He shut his eyes in response.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted this. A taste of something normal. With you. I feel bad for wanting it so badly. I knew the price would be high."

I didn't say anything, but his openness was surprising. He was usually very good at keeping his thoughts and emotions to himself. He'd opened up to me more in the past few days than he had the entire time I'd known him. Maybe he was learning to let his guard down with me. Or just learning how to be human again. I rested my head on his shoulder, even though it was the left one and was too hard to be comfortable.

"You know—I wanted it too," I admitted.

"You had it. A house, a job, a comfortable life."

"I wanted you," I clarified. He stretched his arms out and twisted his fingers, bothered.

"I don't know if I'm worth it," he muttered.

I didn't have an answer to that. I didn't believe that everything I'd lost was somehow payment for what I was gaining. I didn't even know if I was going to gain anything. What if we were terrible for each other? What if it all fizzled out in a month when we were forced to actually cohabitate? What if we started to resent each other? I knew it wouldn't matter if I had anything to say anyway; he wasn't going to believe it.

So I sat back and moved my hand up his arm. I could feel the ridges of metal shifting through his shirt as he turned toward me. I moved my hand to his cheek and watched his eyes flutter closed on contact. I leaned in and kissed him. Softly at first, but he kissed back harder. He moved his whole body toward me and slid his hand over my cheekbone into my hair. It was slower than the last time in the shed, but pretty soon, his other hand snaked around my back. He pulled me in, and my breath caught in my throat.

"Bucky?" I whispered in the split second our lips were apart.

"Mm?" he replied, going back to kissing me. His thumb traced the line of my jaw and his fingers spread over my neck.

"Did you really think about bringing women here?" I felt him smile against my lips.

"Are you jealous?"

"Maybe a little."

He kissed me harder, this time nudging me back onto the mattress. He'd laid the sleeping bag out unzipped, so we didn't have to sleep on a bare, previously owned mystery mattress. He leaned on his arm, hovering over me. But it didn't last long before he was squishing me beneath him. His hand slid down the back of my loose-fitting jeans, gripping me. He pulled away from my lips when I arched my body against him.

"I thought about a woman all the time when I was here before," he told me, dragging his lips up the side of my neck. "But only ever you. That's why I had to go back."

Then his lips found mine again. He squeezed his hand, gripping me and pulling me against him. I clutched him, breathing hard, as his hand came back around to my front. He dragged his fingers over my skin before locating the front button of my jeans and quickly unbuttoning them.

Then he stopped and went completely still. He lifted his head, but his eyes had gone dark and calculating again. I could only hear myself breathing. He sighed and dropped his head.

"Would you consider moving to an isolated cabin in the middle of nowhere?" he asked.

He stood up and away from me. That's when I made out the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and judging by his calm demeanor, I figured he knew who it was. He reached out a hand to help me back up. I reluctantly buttoned my jeans.

"It's Elena," he told me. "I can tell by her limp. She also complains a lot when she moves up the stairs." I groaned. "I feel the same."

I tried to fix my hair in the bathroom while he searched for his glove to cover his hand. Sure enough, she knocked on the door before he even got to the hall. He popped it open, and she pushed her way in, ranting in Romanian, heading right for me. She apparently missed the flustered look on my face or the way Bucky was glaring. She chattered off instructions and shoved a bundle of sheets into my arms.

"Can't sleep on nothing," she said. Then she headed toward Bucky and motioned her head. "You help her."

It was the first time I'd ever seen him look genuinely irritated at another person. Aside from Graham. But not in a distrustful way. Not angry or violent or mildly inconvenienced. Just affectionately irritated. He knew she had our best interest at heart and also that we had enough time to finish what we'd started, but he probably also wished she'd hurry up and leave so we could get back to it. He passed her and took the sheets from me, making my skin burn when he purposefully dragged his fingers down my arm.

"I'll do it," he grumbled. I went to her side as he got to work.

"Thank you so much. I don't know how to repay you," I said. She gave me a pat on the cheek and said something in Romanian. I glanced at Bucky.

"Christ," he muttered. I decided not to question it. He got the final corner of the sheet situated and then sat down with a sigh like he'd had a very long day. Exasperated was probably more like it. She nodded with satisfaction.

"Have a good night," she told us.

Then she gave me a wink and headed out of the door. I went to lock it behind her and shut the light off before returning to Bucky. The apartment was warmer now that he'd gotten the gas turned back on, but it was chilly enough to make me rub my arms when I approached.

He was sitting at the edge of the mattress with his knees up again, but he'd pulled off the glove and tossed it across the room. He took my hand when I reached him. The other one moved around my waist to my back. His metal fingers slid over my skin. He breathed harder whenever we touched. It didn't seem like I was alone in that reaction.

"We're alone now," I pointed out. "Hopefully, it'll last this time."

"I'm still considering an isolated cabin," he told me.

He pulled me to him again, quickly enough to knock me off balance so that when he fell back onto the mattress, he brought me with him. I came to rest on top of him. The room was dark now except for the glow of the city behind the windows. Our thighs were pressed against each other, and even though this obviously wasn't the first time we'd been in a position like this, my heart began to race.

He moved his hands up my back, taking my shirt with them. When we got it off, I came back down and slid my hand over his stomach under his shirt. He tensed and whispered in Russian. I smiled.

"Cold?" I asked innocently.

"No," he replied. "Just—can't really remember ever being touched like that."

I frowned, but he flipped me onto my back and straddled me between his legs. I'd known from the start that he liked to be in charge. The only time he'd ever really let me take the lead was when he was too injured to move. Or the first time. When we'd both been too afraid of hurting each other to let go. But even that night, once we'd gotten through the awkwardness of a first encounter, he'd found me again later and had taken the lead. He'd whispered, hot against my neck, asking me if I was okay. If I liked it. If I wanted him to stop. But I'd only wrapped my legs around him and begged for more.

He sat up and yanked his shirt up over his head. I put my hands on his flat stomach as he twisted around, looking for something.

"Blanket," he explained, leaning over to get the sleeping bag. Then he tossed it over his shoulders and popped the first button of my jeans.

"I thought you weren't cold," I noticed. He had the blanket over his head like a ridiculous cape. The dim green glow of light only reached his bare chest and the few faded reminders of the injury that had kept him under me when he so obviously wanted to be on top of me. His hair was in his face, and his breathing was already labored.

"I'm not," he said. "I just didn't want you to be." He moved back off of me to slide my jeans down my legs.

"Were you not planning on warming me up?" I asked. He smiled and leaned down to kiss me, pushing me back onto the mattress. I moved my hand to his stomach to unbutton his jeans. He nudged himself between my legs and took his lips to my chest.

"I am," he promised. "But very, very slowly."