Bucky thinks he might be broken. Well, no, he knows he’s fucking broken, cus fuck knows he’s spent the last six months being probed to find out exactly how badly. Steve and Tasha and Sam and Stephen and Hank and Jan and Thor and Darcy and Clint breaking the Winter Soldier with kindnesses administered with a tenderness equal to the brutality that James Barnes had been snapped under. And he’s… he doesn’t actually think he’s ever going to be ok but that’s kind of less of a problem in the company of people who also wake up screaming and have to go and destroy things in the gym at 4am.
But this bit of brokenness is something that makes hot tears prickle at his eyes in a way that the most intense therapy session never has. Bucky’s ashamed of stuff he was forced to do, has guilt to a degree that he’s occasionally surprised hasn’t actually physically twisted his spine from the weight of it but he’s not… embarrassed. Embarrassment is for accidentally pissing on your shoes in the dark, falling downstairs, getting caught doodling hearts and rainbows on your strategy papers, not a catalogue of victims’ faces and rivers of blood.
At least catalogues of victims’ faces are pretty good for lessening the opportunity to investigate this particular breakage, he guesses and grimaces, letting his hand fall off his softening cock. And maybe that was it, maybe he was just too fucked up to ever manage to rub one out without seeing dead kids again and hey there are worse things. Probably. Possibly. He’d looked it up during the most agonisingly tense internet recon session he had ever undertaken (and he had, he was pretty sure, gathered intelligence against a deadline of his own bleeding-out bullet wounds, in a bunker in ‘73) and it seemed like he probably wouldn’t die. Technically.
His forehead is pressed so hard against the shower tiles that he might as well be shampooing with grout and his dick stings under the hot water because he seriously gave it a pretty good go today (and last night and yesterday afternoon and that morning, in bed) and this is just shit. He could live with it if the urge was just gone, if Zola had castrated him like a stray dog it could hardly have been worse than the other shit they did but whatever this is, he fucking wants to come and fuck he is actually crying in the shower over his own dick. Jesus.
He’s thought about asking ...someone. But for all he’s got ...not ‘comfortable’ because he doesn’t think ‘comfortable’ is an option anymore but he’s grown accustomed to all his friends knowing he spent 70 years as a toy with a machine gun strapped to it and that his head is a bag full of cats, all of which have fuckin’ knives and yet. He cannot, cannot fucking tell them his junk is broken.
“Buck?” Steve is outside the bathroom, being deliberately noisy in case Bucky’s having an episode which, what the fuck? Can a guy not shower in peace? But oh yes, super-hearing and the strangled sobbing noise that rips out of him, messily and through his nose, is the sum total of all of his grief because this is the absolute fucking worst.
Steve is already through the door because Steve is Steve and Bucky just. Can’t. Can’t deal with Steve seeing him like this, although there’s no way he’ll get the context. Bucky just screws his eyes shut and lets Captain fucking America manhandle him out of the shower and into a huge, soft towel and then cries uncontrollably against fucking super muscles and Bucky doesn’t think he can actually stop. He has never, ever been ashamed to be around Steve before and he doesn’t. He can’t peel himself off Steve because embarassment has turned him into 250lbs of sloppy shame and Steve isn’t going to let him go and just. Fuck everything.
As if that would do any good.
He doesn’t really realise he’s said it until Steve is shushing him and making soothing noises and propelling him to the couch. This isn’t the first or even the fiftieth time he’s cried on Steve and it’s the other way round or, sometimes, two giant hulking bastards just sobbing on each other as much as it is this way. But it’s the first time he’s cried on Steve about his malfunctioning, piece-of-shit dick, so that’s a special new indignity. They probably make cards for it or something now.
Huge arms, as big as his own, arrange him against Steve’s body. They’re both wet and Bucky is naked apart from the towel, which is mostly over them like a blanket, so it shouldn’t really be comfortable and their combined damp weight is probably destroying the furniture. He says as much, making no effort to move and Steve grunts at him because gotta spend the pension on something.
Maybe it’s his age? He hadn’t actually thought of that. He’s what, 97? Must be pretty normal, which is in no way reassuring whatsoever. And what’s he gonna do about it? Check with Steve like some teenage girl writing to an advice column? Like “Oh hey there best pal, while we’re having an intimate moment with my bodily fluids- have you noticed that since spending most of a fuckin’ century deep-frozen you can get it up every four fucking seconds but never actually finish the job? Is that normal?”
Steve actually cuffs him on the ear, which is probably vengeance for the ungodly amount of snot Bucky has rubbed on the front of his t-shirt, “Bucky. Jesus. In the shower? Natasha uses that.”
Bucky stills completely. He was always good at it, got forced to be a lot better at it. He fucking said it. Steve fucking knows he’s crying on him about his broken dick. He entertains deranged thoughts about mind wiping for several micro-seconds.
Apparently his mouth is also broken, though because even as he becomes a rifle-sight statue, “Why does Nat use our shower?”
Steve mouths at his hair, which probably still has shampoo in it and is generally gross but Steve’s a pretty gross guy, “Dunno, never ask a lady with that much blood on her. But Buck, we gotta deal with this.”
Steve has the Captain face on, although he’s looking at the ceiling and has a faint pink tinge to his cheekbones, which gets rosier when Bucky wriggles to pin him “Oh really? We.”
He knows it’s coming, sees the expression on Steve’s face change to Speech Mode and it would be fucking hilarious if it were anyone else’s broken dick that Captain America was about to motivate about but, “We. You’re not a lone soldier, you’re fucking hopeless at looking after yourself and I’m gonna demote you from jerk for the clearly lousy job you’re doing of it.”
Steve surprises him by looking him seriously in the eyes, “You’ve held a cup for me to spit phlegm into, cuddled up to me when I was running with fever, I’ve dug bullets out of you and you’ve stuck three slugs in me this year” -Bucky grimaces and breaks eye contact, involuntarily because ugh- “and I’m pretty confident that I know your dick better than you given all the times you fucking poked me with it, pal so yes, we are going to deal with you.”
Bucky feels vaguely like he’s dying, like he’s bleeding or drowning and just on the edge of being in serious trouble but the fucking truism about it being good to share is still holding. Steve moves underneath him to get him to meet his eyes again, “Seriously, Buck. Although if you cry, I’m out.”
“Really Steve? I thought you liked that arty feelings shit?” Bucky knows his expression doesn’t match the teasing because although he’s keeping his voice light, he’s desperately searching Steve’s face for anything but open affection and a fair amount of… enthusiasm? Sorta like the look he gets before he does something dumb and jumps off a building.
“Nnnfgh, you are not snotting on me while we’re fucking,” and Bucky knows Steve is not this innocent paragon of sweetness and pie that everyone this century seems to mistake him for but that. He feels a bit faint.
Steve’s clearly noticed and is refusing to give him any time to think, for which he is eternally grateful, “C’mon, on your feet soldier; we’re too old for couches.” Bucky considers pointing out that it was Steve that put them there but-
“Wait, we can’t- Steve, we weigh an actual tonne, we will fucking break your bed and I don’t know if-” Steve, in full on mission mode, shoves him against the wall hard enough to leave a metal-shoulder-shaped dent, fuckin’ snogs him like they’re eighty years younger and pulls Bucky’s head back by his hair, crowding and combative.
Combat is comfortable. Combat he can do. So he works his left arm round and shreds Steve’s shirt off him (probably ruined anyway, he figured) and Steve makes a noise that is simultaneously all him and like nothing Bucky’s ever heard before. They’re almost growling at each other, shoulders and hips and thighs knotted together and who knew Steve was so rough?
Bucky likes rough. But he’s tender and broken and he needs less expectation, “Don’t,” he mumbles out in a moment’s break for air, “hold this against me later, pal but be gentle there would ya?”
Steve looks him very seriously in the eye, rubs his enormous fucking hand along Bucky’s jawline and Bucky wonders if this is the last thing, the last big kindness from a friend that will actually fucking fix his brain and if not he’s pretty sure it’s kill or cure because he’s so hard he’s going to rupture something if he doesn’t come, this time and it’s been months and decades and and and.
“Mmnflgh,” he articulates.
In his defense, Steve seems to be having a moment, too. He makes a soft noise that’s unmistakably want (and Bucky knows they kind of always have and kind of always haven’t, so it’s weird and not) and kisses him with a conviction bordering on reverence. And yeah, this is good. This is really fucking good to a point where he doesn’t even care that Steve picks him up and carries him bodily to the bed.
Bucky slings his metal arm over his eyes, lying on his back and trying, desperately, desperately trying not to think. Because if he thinks, he is going to fuck this up and then, internet research aside, he is pretty fucking certain he will die. And how in hell do you fuck up getting ...uh, he isn’t actually sure what Steve’s plan is but something that’s probably quite nice done to him.
He can hear soft rustling, Steve shucking his sweatpants off (for a guy who likes uniform, Captain America is a fucking slob after the front door) and then kneeling, crawling up Bucky’s body.
Bucky can’t open his eyes because fuck he will think about the fact he is about to get pity sex off his nonagenarian best friend and national icon and then his dick will fall off. And Steve seems to get that, kissing and nosing down Bucky’s body from the scars around his left shoulder and down over his ribs, abs, disturbing the trail of hair on his stomach and if it’s all he lets himself think about, he can do this. He can not fuck up someone putting his dick in their mouth, he reckons. His life is really stupid but-
He writhes when Steve sucks him down, lets out a long litany of “fuckfuckinfuckshitohgodStevefuckohmygod” and he’s on fire. He feels sick, he’s so ragingly turned on and it’s every pitiful attempt in the shower and the shame and the fucking dick-bruising and the years on ice when he never considered using it for anything other than pissing and “Where the unfhgh, fuck did you learn ...to? Mnnghf!”
Steve’s chuckle is dirty, not his usual laugh but one Bucky’s heard before, which makes him think he’s heard Steve just after he’s had a cock down his throat and that might have been the thing that finally pushed him over the precipice if Steve hadn’t interjected, “How long has it been?”
“Whuh?” Bucky does open his eyes and it’s both a mistake and not because he is now staring straight at Steve, looking up at him with his jaw slack around Bucky and he can’t do anything other than gawp, in a mixture of panic and terror and blind fucking admiration as Steve swallows him down again and the entire world goes gloriously black.
“Mrrfn. Whurghle?” Bucky isn’t sure he knows any languages anymore, except, “Did we break the bed?”
There’s a warm, dirty laugh behind him and his fluffy, post-orgasmic brain is thinking about boot polish and mahoghany of all the fuckin’ things, “Not yet, soldier and did I say you’re at ease? Get the fuck over here.”