Title: Who Wakes
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Pairing: Sam Wilson/Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes
Rating: Mature (for themes and references)
Word Count: 1000 words (woot!)
Content notes: consent issues (see first cut if you need to know exactly), depression
Author notes: first try, aiming for that name tag!
Summary: Bucky walks out of a shower he doesn't remember starting to find Sam Wilson waiting for him.


Bucky not realizing that Sam is having sex with his body while the Soldier is driving. He doesn't have much reaction to it when he does find out due to his depression and people using his body in the past, he thinks at least Sam was gentle with him. References abuse/rape he suffered under Hydra, but nothing explicit.

I'm trying my best, but if something else should be warned for, please gently let me know.



It’s not subtle anymore.

He sputtered through the water in a shower he didn’t remember starting. Suds dripped in his eyes, so he ignored the ache in his ass and lower back to dip his head and rinse. The water was warm, and he wasn’t cleaning blood from his fingernails. Whatever happened, it could have been worse.

In the beginning he’d blink back to where he’d started, often staring at the rain, a lost hour or two the only proof that he wasn’t alone in his own head. More of a relief than a concern, the escape from reality and the unending grind of keeping himself fed and hidden and relearning the minutia of being human. Maybe he’d invited it, too comfortable giving up control. Lately, he was lucky if he came back the same day, in the same city.

The thin towel soaked through as he scrubbed his body, working quickly and averting his eyes. He wrung his hair out and sighed when he couldn’t find any clothing. At least he wasn’t hungry. Eating was still difficult with his gag reflex. Small favors.

He walked out of the bathroom and reached for the knife that should have been waiting on the dresser. His nudity was now the least of his problems.

“They’re on the pillow,” the man gestured with his hands out wide from his spot on the far side of the room. “He said I could wait for you.”

Wilson. Sam.

His eyes darted around the small room as if a giant blond man could hide against the bare whitewashed walls. “Is Steve?” he had to clear his throat, though he didn’t feel the grind he had last time he’d spoken. “Does he?”

“It’s just me,” Wilson leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

His knives and handguns were lined up, but the ache in his spine and lopsided weight proved he wouldn’t need anything else to hurt this man who’d chased him across continents. Caught finally, almost a relief. Instead, he reached for crumpled jeans and pulled them up his damp hips. Wilson winced as he tucked himself behind the zipper.

“Do you want me to go?”

“What do you call him?” he asked instead of answering, padding on bare feet to the bed and his weapons.

“I don’t really use- he said Soldier,” Wilson relaxed when the weapons disappeared again in a waiting go-bag. “He said they didn’t call him that.”

Asset. Puppet. Cocksucker.

“What should I call you?”

He shrugged, eyes on the grungy floor like so many he’d focused on before. “It doesn’t matter,” he let his wet hair swing in front of his face. “How long?”

“He found me a couple of months ago,” Wilson fell into a parade rest. “Hydra made some trouble. He saved my ass.”

“No, how long?”

“Right away,” Wilson slumped as he rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, man. I fucked up.”

The wind gusted, finding enough cracks to ruffle the sad looking curtains. He lowered his eyebrows; he wasn’t sore like he’d been before when someone used him. “Why?” he finally lifted his head, Wilson obviously treated the Soldier well. “Didn’t he want to?”

Wilson made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Oh, he for sure wanted to. I had the brick burn to prove it from the wall he pushed me against,” he turned away embarrassed, but apparently unworried to show his back to an assassin.

“Why are you sorry?” he imagined it all too easy. Wilson was beautiful, he’d never be brave enough to put his fingerprints there.

“Because- You get how fucked up this is, right?” Wilson turned to catch him staring. “It’s your body, and you didn’t know. I shouldn’t have done that.”

His mouth twitched, “My scale of fucked up things is a little different.” He reached for a hoodie on the bed, realizing it wasn’t his at the unfamiliar aftershave. A nice smell.

“All right,” Wilson shared that small smile. “I didn’t realize how hard you were disassociating. I tried to cut it off, but y’know, the Soldier can be persuasive.”

Tucking his hands into the big pocket, something hot and mean settled in his stomach. “What’s he like?” he poked the feeling.

“He’s quiet too,” Wilson said, crossing to the bed to sit and pat the spot beside him. “Intense. Has a bit of a staring problem. And an insane sweet tooth. He’s even funny sometimes.”

“I-” he got a sudden flash of sweet and chewy, flavors that burst over his tongue. Sitting down, the saggy mattress bounced them together. “Peach cookies?”

“We got those in Romania,” Wilson settled their thighs together. “You remember anything else?”

Wilson, Sam laid out on his belly, a metal hand on his ass, spreading him open. It was jealousy, that hard feeling in his guts. Jealous of himself. He shook himself, leaning backwards to pull himself up the bed so he could drop his head on the flat pillow.

“Do you mind if I stay?”

“For when he comes back,” he said, burn gone from inside, replaced with an icy ball of certainty it would be better if he never woke up again and let the Soldier have a chance at a life.

“I want to get to know you,” Wilson reached out again as if he couldn’t help but touch. “Nothing else happens until you’re ready.”

“I have nightmares.”

The bed jostled as Wilson settled, bunching another pillow under his neck. He looked over, thoughtful, “You act out during them?”

“Mostly I jerk awake,” he regulated his breathing. Two in. Two out. Try to feel something. Fail. Wilson a solid presence, taking space and making him real. “Sometimes I can’t move. Sometimes I cry.”

“Happens to everyone,” Wilson reached over, fitting their bodies together to share his warmth in the crappy hostel. “Can I stay?”

“Yeah,” he closed his eyes on the cracks in the ceiling and wondered who would wake up. He hoped for something good. “Call me Bucky.”