Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Thunderbolts floor was quiet. Quieter than the Avengers’ floor above, where Sam’s crew liked to stay up too late, voices carrying through vents and stairwells. Down here, the silence almost felt like a blessing.

John sat on the edge of Bucky’s bed, shoulders rounded, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His son was asleep two doors down, safe, watched over by a rotation of teammates who somehow understood that John’s kid came first, always. Therapy appointments, school schedules, custody hearings—Bucky had memorized them all, unasked.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching.

He still wasn’t sure what they were. Lovers, maybe. Partners, sort of. John kissed him sometimes like he meant forever, other times like he was terrified to be caught feeling anything at all. But Bucky didn’t need a label. Not now. Not when John’s presence was the first anchor in decades that made him feel like the years hadn’t swallowed him whole.

Still, his chest ached with the question that never went away: Does John really want this—want me?

He flexed his left hand. The metal caught the lamplight, pale and sharp. He used it around John sparingly—never wanting to overwhelm him, never wanting to remind him of all the ways their lives had been carved up by violence.

John looked up, caught him staring, and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky shifted, uncomfortable. “Nothin’.”

“That’s a lie.” John stood, crossing the room with that stubborn set to his jaw—the same one that had dragged him through dishonor, therapy, and the unending grind of rebuilding. The same one that made Bucky fall for him in the first place.

Bucky sighed. “It’s the arm.” He lifted it slightly, then let it fall. “Sometimes I think maybe you don’t… y’know. Want it near you. Near us.”

John blinked at him. Then, unbelievably, laughed—rough, disbelieving, but warm. “You think I’d be here, all the nights you’ve asked me to stay, if I cared about that?”

Bucky’s mouth went dry.

John reached for the metal fingers, wrapping both of his hands around them. They dwarfed his own, but he held tight, steady. “Bucky. You carried me out of more than one fire with this arm. You held me up when I couldn’t stand. You—” His voice cracked. “—you held me when I didn’t even want to hold myself. Don’t you dare think I don’t love every inch of you. Flesh, metal, scars, all of it.”

The words hit harder than bullets ever had.

Bucky swallowed, throat thick. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until John tugged him forward, until his forehead was pressed to John’s, until he felt the smaller tremors in John’s hands. PTSD left its mark, Bucky knew. They both woke up sometimes shaking. They both had nights where silence pressed too close. But here—like this—Bucky could almost believe in peace.

“You’re mine, y’know,” Bucky whispered hoarsely, possessive and raw. He didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but the truth was lodged deep.

John didn’t flinch. He just leaned in, pressing a kiss against the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. Don’t need to call it anything else.”

Bucky crushed him to his chest then, careful even in his hunger, wrapping both arms around John. Metal and flesh. Unafraid.

And for once, John didn’t pull away.