Chapter Text
Bucky gets back from a mission, and the first thing he does is look for you. Sometimes you’re in the living area, sometimes the kitchen, sometimes on the roof. Most nights you’re in your room, glancing at your phone for some kind of update. Desperate to know he’s okay. And he looks for you because he knows. That no matter how long he’s been away or what shape he’s in, you’ll beam when you see him and throw yourself into his arms. It makes him feel safe, even though he’s the one who’s supposed to be protecting you. And most of all—when you run your hands through his hair and murmur how much you missed him—it makes him feel loved.
Every time, without fail, he makes you shower with him. Sometimes he’ll get in first, to wash off the layers of grime before he allows himself to touch you. But there’s always a second shower, just to feel you. Kiss over your shoulders as you sway in his arms, let you tend to his wounds as if they might actually be a danger. It doesn’t matter what medical attention he got from the New Avengers doctors. It’s always better to have you trace the shallow cuts with careful hands, touching him not like a tool to be repaired, but a work of art to be restored. And you do restore it. With every small smile and bubble of soap framing your face, Bucky slowly feels himself coming back to life.
You always make him eat. It doesn’t matter if the mission was in Paris or the middle of the desert. You know that he focuses too hard and neglects that kind of thing, favoring to complete the assignment as fast as possible. Yelena started sending you photos of him eating to try and assure you, but all that made you do was worry more. There weren’t nearly enough. And Bucky will mutter that he’s fine, doll, don’t even feel hungry, I’m part machine remember? But you just glare at him, and he’ll sit down with a sigh. You know he loves it, anyway. Because you encourage him. You’ll sit next to him, and—every time, without fail—end up in his favorite spot for you to be.
Bucky doesn’t let you move from his lap, as he eats. His hand rests on your thigh and his chin on your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair and talk about nothing, because you’ve long learned that the best way to be there for him after a mission is just be there. Give him something soft and normal and pointless to think about, touching him with every word to remind him that you’d never want to be anywhere else. You hand on his jaw as you tell him about a bitch at work, your cheek pressed to the side of his head while you explain the plot of a show you’re watching. He gives small grunts and throws in a you want me to scare her, baby every once in a while, and you know it’s his way of telling you he’s not ignoring you. You know he’s not.
He relaxes with every word, until you can see the exhaustion settling comfortably over his handsome features. He tells you he never gets tired. You know better. You tell him that being up for seventy-two hours will make anyone tired, regardless of the super-solider serum. He rolls his eyes and kisses the back of your hand. Leads you to your shared room, with only low chuckles at you teasing about how for someone who never gets tired, he sure is trying to go to bed. He’ll look over his shoulder with a soft, quiet amusement and tell you that he’s not trying to go to bed. He’s trying to get you in bed, and there’s a big difference.
Bucky gets ready for bed slow. He’s been moving all week, and he loves torturing you. Pulling off his clothing before stretching, talking about mission reports and geopolitics, knowing fully well you’re not listening. It’s your turn to sit and be quiet. Fidget with the hem of his shirt—draped over your frame all week, because it smells like him and you miss him every second he’s gone—and sit cross-legged on the bed watch him move around the room. You’re trying to listen, but it’s hard when he looks like that. All chiseled muscle and softness in the right places. His metal hand flexes, and you press your thighs together as he drawls about something unimportant. You’re always about to whine and please, when he finally crosses the room and takes your face between his hand.
It’s always feels like he’s returned from war, when he kisses you. But this kind of kiss is more. Deeper, longer, careful and sloppy all at once with his tongue pressing between your lips and his knee pushing against your core as he leans further down. He’s trying to rememorizes the taste and feel of you. He never forgets, not for a second, but there’s always the fear. And with every second of the kiss, he knows you’re ingrained into him. Every time is still like tasting heaven, though. Like crawling out of the dark and seeing the sun, when he lays you down on the mattress and snakes his hand under your shirt. It’s like he’s coming home.
And Bucky takes care of his home. Tends to it. It is—you are—all he has. All he needs. It doesn’t matter where he ends up in the world, as long as he gets to return to you, he’s good. To your small moans of his name as he kisses your neck and presses his metal thumb to your clit. To the way you respond to his every touch. Whether it’s a hand skimming up your side or the head of his cock slapping against your dripping pussy, you shiver and cling to him. When he pushes into you and your mouth falls open with a gasp of his name it’s a siren call. The slapping of his skin against yours as he fucks you into the mattress is a war drum he’ll follow for the rest of his life. Your nails scratch his chest and it’s a badge of honor, and he kisses you until your orgasm rips through your body, and you squeeze around his cock until he cums with a roar of your name.
It’s a hymn he’ll sing for the rest of his life, your praise. He tells you that you did well, as he pulls out and kisses your neck. Reminds you how pretty you looked when you came on his cock, the image of you thoroughly wrecked and cockdrunk one that could never be erased from his head. There’s a good girl when he asks you to spread your legs so he can clean up, and a low joke about what a welcome home that was. It’s not what you do every time he’s gone. He still fears the day you decided his job is too much, and this ends up being the last welcome he ever gets.
You remind him every time that it will never be too much. That you miss him so much because you love him, and you worry because the pain of his absences is worth the overwhelming joy of his return. He always just hums, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. He holds you close every night, but these ones are longer. A little darker, a little heavier. He mutters that he’s lucky to have you. You kiss him brow, and tell him that you’re lucky to have him. That you mean it. No matter how often he leaves, he always comes home. And that you’ll wait every single time, just to tell him that you love him, and stay with him in the dark.