He notices it the first time when he stumbles away from the men behind a tree to take a piss. His prick is weightier in his hand, feels different to what he remembers. Not that he had a lot of time to think about his junk on that table. Then there’s the extra bit of skin. He knows what it is, has seen Steve’s dick the few times he’s been too sick to piss without help. He doesn’t touch it then and tries not to think about later. The same way he tries not to think about how fast the cuts on his back and sides and arms are healing under the ragged clothing.
He doesn’t tell the medics back at camp or even the doctors when they reach London. He lies about the healing and about everything else. He lies to Steve’s face when he asks and it has never been this easy before.
Steve who’s not even Steve anymore. The size of a house, no crooked spine or stuttering lungs in sight. He doesn’t mean to be short or mean, to turn the cold shoulder, but he feels like his friend is gone, as if a part of Bucky is suddenly gone. The part that would look out for Steve, that would take care of him. It’s gone and not needed. Not wanted.
He wonders if Steve even remembers those parts of him anymore. If he wants to.
They get given some nice digs at the SSR HQ. The benefits of being on team Captain America, and it’s the first time in months that he has a bathroom with a lock. A lock and a chipped cast-iron bathtub.
He shaves in front of the mirror, trying to desperately not to notice his own reflection in the glass. Tries to not be seen. He runs a bath after; the water is lukewarm, but feels like heaven after months and months of grime and washing from a bucket.
He looks at his dick, floating under the hazy water. The flap of new skin looking so innocuous, matching perfectly, like it’s always been there. He runs his fingers over it, feeling it, and finally pulling back the hood to expose the head of his cock, the familiar shape of himself.
It doesn’t feel familiar. The skin is tender, more sensitive than he’s used to, running his fingertips over the head. It’s not a wholly pleasant sensation, so he stops, rolling the skin back into place. Tries to ignore it as he washes with a sliver of soap let in the dish by the tub.
He tries to jack off in bed later. The practiced motions of his hand over the head just cause more pain than anything else so he stops, shoving his dick back into his drawers with angry motions, as if his dick has somehow offended him.
The same thing repeats the next night. He tries for longer, but eventually the soreness wins out. The head throbs all night unhappily. Bucky’s never been particularly religious, has never really thought of the significance of his dick that way. It was just the way it was, the way it’s always been. Now it’s just a sore reminder of all the things that are wrong with him.
Eventually, he figures that he has to talk to someone. It’s weird and uncomfortable and so fucking sensitive. It’s not like they’re going to be in London forever and he’s not going to bring this up with anyone in the field. He knows that the docs would cut it for him, it was offered, aggressively, when he first got drafted, but the thought of letting someone near him with a scalpel makes him sit down on the floor of his bathroom until the nausea subsides.
Steve’s really the only option, but how do you approach your best friend who suddenly doesn’t even look like your best friend anymore?
In the end, he has to bite the bullet when the new orders come in. They are heading out to the continent in three days time. It gives him a deadline and a kick up the ass.
Steve’s room is in the back of the townhouse they’ve been given. It has a bedroom attached to an office. Fit for a Captain. The walls and doors are still flimsy, put back into place just before the Commandos moved in.
Steve’s face lights up like Christmas when Bucky sneaks in, flipping the lock closed and leaning against the wood, trying to fake his usual casual sprawl.
“Okay, what I’m gonna tell you, you can’t tell the docs. Or the brass, okay.”
Steve get’s that disapproving little frown between his brows, the smile disappearing slowly.
“No, if you can’t keep your trap shut then just forget about it.”
Bucky moves to leave. Flipping the lock open again. He just won’t fucking wank ever again. Or just let the doctors cut him up. His stomach rolls ominously at the thought.
“Wait, wait, Bucky. Wait!”
Steve grabs him by the sleeve, suddenly up from his chair and standing at Bucky’s side. He runs so hot now. Bucky can feel it even through the wool serge of both of their service coats. His big hand comes past Bucky’s side to flip the lock closed again. It’s enough to make Bucky relax a fraction, a silent promise of Steve’s confidence.
He doesn’t know if it’s something on his face, or the still-tense planes of his body that make Steve return to his seat by the desk, leaving Bucky again to lean on the door. Almost as if he wants to ignore the interruption, of his own reluctance to keep Bucky’s secrets.
He tries to lean back again, forcing his shoulder to relax. The words are caught in his throat, stuck every time he tries to open his mouth to speak, but Steve doesn’t hurry him. Just sits, waiting patiently. Those blue, blue eyes boring into him. The eyes he used to imagine every time he closed his own on the table, every time the pain got the better of him. At least he isn’t here. That’s what Bucky used to think.
“After the camp…things changed. I’m different. After.”
“Yeah, Buck, I know that. It’s understandable after…”
He feels weary, annoyed, aggravated at the face of Steve’s earnest gaze.
“No, like physically changed.”
He nearly rips his jacket open. The other change to hard to contemplate. This is easier, this is visible. Something to concentrate on. Something to show.
“Bucky what are you….”
Unbuttoning the fly of his standard issues, and pushing down his drawers, Bucky pulls his dick out. It’s cold but he doesn’t really have time to worry about that now. Not like Steve’s ever gonna look at it like that.
Steve’s turned beet red. He’s refusing to look anywhere near Bucky’s crotch.
“Look!” He finally yells, fed up of Steve’s shyness. They’ve seen each other naked before. Maybe not quite this obviously, but still. He holds the head of his dick between thumb and forefinger, in an almost accusatory way. Pulling on the skin.
“This! I didn’t used to have this!”
Steve sort of squints at his dick, cheeks reddening in a way that Bucky will never admit to himself he finds adorable.
“I mean, how do you…. How do you deal with it, you know… when you…” he makes a rude hand gesture.
Steve’s blush is now moving over his neck and disappearing into his uniform collar. Bucky tries to not to think how far down it goes.
“You know, you just…”
He makes a sort of abortive, embarrassed hand gesture, and then crosses his legs where he sits, looking as if he wants to cover himself with his hands.
Bucky’s still holding his dick, which is starting to take a passing interest in the warm touch.
“I mean pal, it doesn’t feel too good. You know, when the skin’s pulled back.”
“Oh you don’t pull it back, it gets too dry like that.”
“The what the fuck do you do then? It’s just in the way!”
He pulls the skin back aggressively and grimaces at the feeling, at the cold, musty air of the room.
“Fuckin’ hell, Buck.”
Steve’s up from his chair again and his warm hands are suddenly on Bucky’s dick, pulling the skin back over the head, his fingers sort of petting it as if to apologize. There is familiarity in his touch, a sureness Bucky had thought all but lost between them. That strange intimacy from years of living in each other’s pockets.
Steve doesn’t say anything, just takes the head into his hand. The callouses from where he used to hold his pencils are gone, but there is still that familiar shape to them. If Bucky closes his eyes, he can still….no. That’s not, he isn’t going to let himself. That’s always been the line, to not think of Steve and this.
It’s like Steve has no idea where Bucky’s thoughts are going, rubbing the head between his thumb and fingers, massaging the glands in a way that feels almost too good. The skin moves over the sensitive head. Pulses of pleasure making his balls pull in tight, still caught in his shorts.
“The head’s real sensitive, so you gotta just play with it like this to start with.”
Bucky’s getting hard, his breathing getting more labored. It’s been a while. A really long while. He tells himself that it’s just that. Just the time. Not that it’s Steve’s hands on him. Getting him hard and wanting. Leaning against a flimsy door in a pokey house somewhere in London’s West End where anyone could walk in.
Steve starts fisting him, moving the skin over the length, jerking him off with steady pressure. It feels heavenly. The skin moving with ease, the tip of his cock suddenly wet, beads of slick at the tip now peeping almost indecently from the folds of skin as Steve jacks the shaft. His fist tightens on every upstroke, squeezing just below the head, making Bucky pant.
“Is this how you like it, Stevie?”
He needs to tease, needs to get back some of the control, needs to be something else than a panting, whimpering fool with his standard issues caught around his thighs like a wet-behind-the-ears private.
It’s almost absent-minded, Steve’s focus now securely on Bucky’s dick, the flushed head peeking from the foreskin. His thumb sweeping over the fluid there and it nearly makes Bucky’s knees buckle.
That’s all he gets out before he’s shooting off, thick white strands of come over Steve’s hands and the wool of his service trousers. The syllables stretched between his lips and teeth, the name he really wants to call out bitten back only barely.
Steve wipes his hands and Bucky’s trousers off with a handkerchief and Bucky is nearing hysteria. Pulling up his pants with trembling hands. Steve won’t look him in the eye as he finally scrambles out.
The next time, they’re in an abandoned manor house somewhere in occupied France. Sleeping two per room for safety. Two knives stashed under his pillow and his Colt M1911 shoved between the mattress and the frame.
It’s dark out but a cloudless night and the crescent moon visible through the window gives the room some light. Steve’s breathing is even and deep next to him, breath puffing in the cold air, the white mist of it visible in the cool light of the moon. With his Colt Commando shoved into the bed frame and shield resting on his side of the bed, Bucky feels almost safe.
“Steve, you awake?”
He jerks up with a “Hmmhhu, yeah.”
Bucky’s seen to himself a few times after what happened in Steve’s room in London, but it just hasn’t felt the same, hasn’t felt right. He’d tried to do what Steve had done, mimic the motions his hands had done, but it hadn’t been the same. Hadn’t been the wide, hot, artist’s fingers working him over.
Maybe he’s quiet too long, the words caught between his throat and lips, because Steve speaks, questioning.
“Can you show me again?”
The words are fast, barely a whisper. He feels stupid asking, suddenly tense and ashamed. Until Steve’s hand sneaks under his blanket, cupping Bucky’s half-hard dick through his drawers. He runs so hot now, just the feel of his palm making Bucky’s toes curl.
Steve slides his fingers over the buttons, deftly opening them and sneaking his hand inside. His fingers are firm, massaging over the tip again until Bucky grunts.
“You like it like this?”
There’s something vulnerable in Steve’s voice in the dark, something curious and afraid. Like Bucky’s answer really matters.
“Yeah...yeah, it’s real good.”
Steve hums like he’s pleased, giving Bucky’s cock a playful stroke, teasing his balls with his fingertips. Combing through the coarse hair, almost petting, gentle in his ministrations. It makes Bucky feel soft, taken care of, which he wasn’t sure he could ever feel again.
Fortified by that feeling, Bucky now sneaks his own hand under Steve’s blanket. Palms the swell of his cock over Steve’s trunks and Bucky can feel him freeze. Snatching his hand back, shame and worry curling in his belly.
“No, it’s okay, just….”
Steve takes his hand, guiding it back, opening the buttons and letting Bucky feel him. Steve’s dick is huge, long and thick. The tip of it covered by his foreskin, and that now feels familiar. The bead of fluid in the opening, the sensitive head that it hides.
Steve squirms under his touch.
“The serum...it, ah, made it a bit...”
His words become an unintelligible grunt as Bucky squeezes the shaft, works his fist over the thick base. He lets go, ignoring Steve’s whine of protest, and grabs his hand, still clutching the edges of his open fly.
Steve’s huge palm covers his, slowly guiding him into the gentle loose grip he seems to like, slowly working himself over. Deep sigh making his chest expand when Bucky finds the right rhythm.
“It made me kinda sensitive.”
Bucky can hear the blush in his voice and he smiles into the dark. Buoyed by the fact that he is the one who gets to know this, the one Steve is confiding in.
They end up jerking each other off with their hands on each other’s cocks. Breathlessly panting, side by side, feet, and shoulders touching under their blankets as they move together in a strangely matching rhythm.
“Buck, Buck, you gonna...”
“Yeah, yeah, Steve...”
Steve comes with an almost pained whine, his cock jerking in Bucky’s grip. Hot, wet seed over his stomach and Bucky’s fist. Bucky isn’t far behind, fucking into the curl of Steve’s hand, pressing his heels into the bed as he comes. Biting his lip so hard it hurts, just to keep himself from shouting the name of the man lying next to him.
The next time, they’re back in London and Steve catches him in the showers. The halls and changing rooms of the SSR HQ are empty. Everyone’s cleared out before the weekend leave. They’re the last ones there, cleaning up after one of Stark’s hairbrained experiments again.
Even with the water around him Bucky hears Steve come in, recognizes his measured steps. Hears the telltale click of the lock and even the drag of a chair as it’s wedged under the handle of the door.
He doesn’t turn to look, facing the white linoleum, trying to breathe through the steam of the hot water. He still wonders who the SSR has bribed to have such facilities in war-torn London. He’s pretty sure that even the King is not blessed with this much free-flowing hot water.
There’s the clink and whiff of a belt pulled loose. The scuff of a leather boot against the floor. He doesn’t hear the clothing, but counts down the minutes of Steve undressing, unsettles by his silence.
“You, uhh, you doing alright?”
Suddenly Steve is plastered to his back, wet and hot. Dick sliding against Bucky’s ass, between the cheeks as if by accident. Steve’s huge tree-trunk arms around him, holding him, grounding him.
“I thought you might want a bit of help.”
Bucky hears the smile in Steve’s voice, feels it against the side of his neck. He lets himself lean back, lets his hips find a gentle rhythm against the cradle of Steve’s pelvis. The hot hard length of Steve’s cock, fitting against him like it belongs there.
He leans against the wall, forearms on the wet tiles as Steve jerks him off and ruts against his ass. His fingers now so knowledgeable about what Bucky likes. The rough press of his thumb and forefinger rubbing over the seated head, rubbing until Bucky is leaking, until the flushed, red tip peeks from the foreskin. Seeking and hungry for more touch.
Steve’s legs are braced on the floor, his thighs pressed into Bucky’s, and he feels them tensing as Steve comes. Spunk hot and sticky on the small of his back, sliding down the valley of his ass.
It is with that thought, as wrong as it is, that he comes. The hot grip of Steve’s hand driving him into bliss. Panting and moaning, which even the pounding of the water struggles to hide. Forgetting everything for just a brief moment.
They stand together like that, holding each other, breathing each other in, cloistered in the near-dark of the washroom. Protected by the flimsy lock and a chair wedged against the floor. Protected by the late night and Steve’s perceived wholesomeness.
In the silence, Bucky has to admit to himself that it stopped being, if it ever had been, about how to work his new dick.
In the end, it’s just the two of them bundled up in a pup tent, sleeping bags shoved together and wool blankets thrown on top. It’s freezing cold, pitch dark, and so easy to just slot their bodies together for warmth.
Steve’s nose slides against his, their breaths mist in the air between their lips, breathing each other in. Sharing breath like they’ve always shared everything else. It feels natural to reach over and press his lips to Steve’s. As he does it Bucky knows it’s crossing some invisible line, more than anything they’ve done before.
In the months to come, they love each other the best they know how in the trenches and cold tents. Snatching furtive hours on leave. Hiding who and what they are even from the Howlies.
Then there’s the train and the fall. There is the cold and the dark.
The next time is in a cavernous shower cubicle in Wakanda seventy years in the future. The walls are lush blue of natural stone, reflecting the low light in the room. Calm and assuring, the perfect hideaway for him, for what he is about to undergo tomorrow.
He knows Steve is in the room long before he speaks. Maybe he has always had a sort of a sixth sense on Steve, in particular, attuned to his presence like no other.
“You want a hand?”
Bucky laughs. It sounds unpracticed and rusty even to himself. He hasn’t had a cause to laugh in a long time, but he tries for levity, trying to capture those long-ago moments he barely remembers anymore.
“You’re a funny guy, Rogers.”
There’s a smile in Steve’s voice that he can hear even when he’s not looking. Remembers clearly what it looks like. The soft lift of his lips, the way his eyes soften with it. Bucky hopes that Steve hears the hesitant smile in his voice too.
“I wasn’t sure if you remembered.”
There is a rough laugh behind him, so maybe he does.
“I wasn’t sure if you did.”
Steve’s stripping off his coat, pulling off his t-shirt, chucking his pants to the corner of the room. Bucky listens to the sounds of him undressing. The strange déjà vu, the familiarity of it. There are differences, he thinks. Steve is hesitant as he walks in under the water. His hand touching Buck’s right shoulder, down over his shoulder blade and ribs before he presses close, almost unsure of his welcome.
Bucky understands why, feels the hesitation in himself too. He should push Steve away, should reject him, for Steve’s own good. What is still left of him, that Bucky of old, is so fragile, so thin and uneven. He shouldn't get to have this now.
He shudders at Steve’s hand curling over his ribs, traveling over his stomach, down past his belly button and the tight coil of his hipbones.
“I thought that maybe you’d forgotten how to work this.”
Steve’s hand is still wide and running hot, a steady grip around the base of Bucky’s dick, and it’s familiar. So, so familiar. It hardens in Steve’s hand, a Pavlovian response he’s never had to be trained for.
“Yeah, yeah, I did. You should show me.”
Steve chuckles, lips pressed behind Bucky’s ear, the sound reverberating down his spine, and that’s familiar too, like a ghost echo. The way Steve’s fingers work over the head, massaging until Bucky is dripping, rolling the skin down until the flushed head peeks out. Teasing and humming into Bucky’s neck.
Bucky, in turn, spreads his legs, pushing back against Steve’s body, feeling that thick cock slide into the valley of his ass. He’s thought about it, when the memories finally came back, though why he had never done it and gone the whole way.
He can’t stop thinking about it now, reaching out to the shelf in the corner, he fiddles with the conditioner bottle, tries to get it open with his hand. Struggles until Steve takes the bottle, flipping the top open, letting the viscous white liquid pour all over his hand.
Bucky leans forward, his forehead on the cool tile, sliding his hand between his legs. Feeling over that vulnerable pucker of flesh. Fingering himself with the conditioner. Slicking up Steve’s cock still nestled between his legs. Guiding the head of Steve’s dick against his asshole. Rockin into the feeling of the blunt head pressing into him.
The press and slide of it hurts but feels good too. Steve doesn’t try to stop, moving where Bucky’s hand guides him, staying still as Bucky presses down against him.
“Bucky, oh fuck, Bucky, wait, wait, wait...”
But he doesn’t, forcing Steve’s thick, hard length all the way in. Steve’s hands hold his hips tight, forcing him to be still between those two powerful palms. And Bucky realizes he’s panting, crying. He feels Steve starting to move, pulling away. Those strong palms still holding him, and he can’t move.
Voice so small, he barely recognizes it.
“Don’t pull out. Please.”
Steve doesn't. Instead, he wraps his arms around Bucky’s middle, pressing back together, the bright edge of pain as he slides all the way back in. They’re flush from knees to chest, to Steve’s chin over his shoulder.
Bucky lets himself lean against the wall, cheek and chest pressed into the tile. Breathing around the feel of Steve inside of him. The ache and the hurt and the pleasure. A memory of something new, and he’s grateful now that they didn’t do this before. That he gets to have this now, to create this memory only for himself, for himself as he is now.
He puts his hand over where Steve’s are resting on his belly, twining their fingers together. He feels the sob release in Steve’s chest like an avalanche against his back. The hitched breaths he’s trying to contain.
“Shh, shh, Stevie.”
Bucky isn’t sure if Steve even hears him over the water. Maybe he does, because he moves. Rocks back into him, fucking Bucky so gently, so carefully, lips moving over the skin of his shoulder, the back of his neck. Muttering words that Bucky doesn’t catch.
He thinks it might be I love you, but maybe it’s just something he wants to hear, wants to imagine.
Afterward, Steve wraps them in towels and Bucky lets himself be pulled into the bed in the suite. Under the thick covers and the lights turned off. Pressed against each other in the dark, like they are the only ones left in the world.
“Don’t go into the cold.”
Steve breathes the word into the nape of his neck like a secret, like something shameful. Like something he’s struggling to hold in.
“Stay with me.”
Bucky breathes with it, breathes with the words sinking into his flesh and bones, hooking into places already there, carved out of him by Steve. So deep and sure that even HYDRA hadn’t been able to scoop them out.
And he does.