Chapter Text
“Bad habit, I know
But I'm needin' you right now
Can you help me out?
Can I lean on you?
(...)
Hate to say that I love youHate to say that I need you
Hate to say that I want you
But I do…”
He was on his third shot—not that it mattered to keep count. Not that the shots really did anything for him, other than that brief tingling on his tongue and the harsh burn that slid down his throat and seemed to evaporate from his body as if the liquor scorched everything in its path, igniting a silent combustion. He was there, drinking liquid courage that did nothing for his worn-out body and mind. But from there, he could watch—from there, he could keep his eyes on the blond figure he had, perhaps quite directly, helped to destroy.
He took another shot, gloved hands hiding the metal one—not out of shame, not because his arm alone would give him away, but sometimes it still allowed him to pass unnoticed, here and there. When he stood, he left the money on the bar counter, his hand still wrapped around the bottle he’d paid for before leaving.
From a distance, his steps might have seemed unsteady. They weren’t—at least not because of the alcohol—but because of the uncertainty of being received. Because of the doubt of whether he was doing the right thing, or if his presence would only be salt on an open wound. But he had sent a message, and Walker had replied…
He pressed the intercom button, even as his mind mocked him with the thought that he wasn’t welcome there—and maybe he really wasn’t.
He waited. It didn’t take long before the familiar buzz signaled that the building’s main door had been unlocked. He stepped through the doorway, glancing back as if mapping out an escape route from something of his own making. The staircase stood right ahead in that depressing entrance hall. Looking closely, it felt more like an abandoned building—a place where people didn’t come to live, but to hole up, to hide, to forget there was life left to live, perhaps. But honestly, who was he to judge, when so many nights his own bed was the hard floor of his living room?
He climbed the stairs slowly. There was no rush—no reason to hurry when he knew exactly where he was going. When he stopped in front of Walker’s door, he knocked. There was a doorbell, sure, but he had already made his arrival clear enough when he rang the intercom and was buzzed in. The door was unlocked. He turned the knob as a test and stepped inside, half-expecting to be met by Walker attacking him with a knife—but nothing happened. He shut the door behind him, locked it out of habit—as if his body had done this many times before, though it hadn’t. It was only his second time there, in that empty, bleak apartment.
“Walker…” he called, softly. There was no need to raise his voice when the echo carried it through the rooms.
“You’re not the delivery guy.”
The figure appeared in the doorway leading from the bathroom—wet hair, sweatpants hanging low, a towel thrown carelessly over a bare shoulder, his chest still damp from a recent shower. It was his attempt to lighten the mood, a joke punctuated by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—barely tugging his lips into a weak curve.
“I’m kidding, Bucky. Looks like you still don’t have a sense of humor.”
And Walker still pretended he had one.
“Still no furniture?”
Bucky could see that, yes, but didn’t know what to say—just like the last time he’d been there, when words had also escaped him. The emptiness of the place reminded him of his own apartment, full of spaces waiting to be decorated, to be filled.
“You’re very observant,” Walker replied, “but I do have a new bed set and two glasses.”
Walker walked past Bucky toward the small kitchen attached to the living room, his bare feet making no sound against the old parquet floor of that worn, empty apartment. There was a stool near the tall island dividing the rooms—where, on his better days, Walker ate in silence, haunted by the ghosts that screamed inside his head. That was where he’d hung the towel—oddly placed, maybe, but done with precision. He had folded it neatly in half so it fit perfectly over the stool’s backrest, careful not to let it touch the floor or slip to the sides.
“So?”
Walker grabbed the two glasses he’d mentioned, placing them on the counter. His eyes went to the bottle in Bucky’s hand—the one he had clearly forgotten he was holding. His expression gave it away when he looked down and placed the bottle within Walker’s reach.
“Double shot, I imagine. May I ask what brings you here? I thought we’d finally settled our unfinished business.”
Walker slid one of the glasses toward Bucky. Not just a double—he’d filled it to the acceptable limit and then a bit past that. Bucky took it, eyes lost in the clear liquid, his tongue brushing over his slightly parted lips before he raised the glass and drank it all in one go.
Bucky watched him carefully, searching for any change in Walker—something genuine that would say he was trying to move on, not just pretending. Bucky was good at spotting that sort of thing; he was a natural liar himself when it came to his mental health, his well-being, his happiness.
It wasn’t the first time they’d talked. Well—“talked” was a generous word for what had happened that other time, standing on that tiny balcony off Walker’s living room, drinking something strong that Walker had in the house—something that might’ve been illegal, but at least had made Bucky’s tongue tingle. The alcohol this time wasn’t as strong, but he wasn’t going to get drunk anyway. He downed it in a single swallow, set the glass back on the counter, and let his wandering steps carry him across the old wooden floor to the empty living room.
He was there because he felt obligated to check on Walker… and because, after that first conversation, he’d noticed that his mind—though still foggy and tired—grew a little quieter in Walker’s presence. Maybe so he could listen better. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because of how much they resembled each other.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
His voice carried easily to Walker. Looking over his shoulder, Bucky could see Walker’s expression—one eyebrow raised in disbelief, head tilted as if trying to figure out when they had become confidants, or worse… people who talked. People who could potentially be friends.
“Yeah, it’s not even nine yet. I know you’re old, but come on.”
Walker was now almost too close to him, his stealthy, traitorous feet having brought him near enough to see the exhaustion carved into the Winter Soldier’s face.
“For someone with sleep problems, joining Congress wasn’t exactly a wise choice.”
Walker opened the balcony door—not to step outside, just to let a bit of air flow through the apartment, a touch of coolness against his always overheated body. Then he moved back to Bucky’s side and let himself slide down the wall until he felt the floor under his legs—one knee bent to rest his arm on, the other stretched out, his head leaning back against the wall.
Walker didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t mind when Bucky followed his lead and sat down on the wooden floor as well, looking at him as if this were something they did every night after a few drinks.
“How are you?”
Bucky knew a lot. He knew Olivia had asked for a break. He knew Walker had been stripped of his position—the government needed an example, and what better scapegoat than a decorated ex-soldier?
“I’m fine.”
Walker had said the same thing the last time—a half-smile that barely reached his lips, something far closer to mockery than happiness or ease. It was the expression of someone caught between wanting to accept his fate and wanting to hide his misery with teeth and nails.
Bucky leaned his head back against the wall, mirroring him. He closed his eyes for a moment, his breath heavy, tired. He was truly exhausted from pretending. He just wanted to be next to someone who wouldn’t push, who wouldn’t ask how he was—and there he was, doing the same thing to Walker. Pressing him for an answer he already knew would be a lie.
“I—”
“No.”
Walker cut him off. He didn’t want another apology. He didn’t want to hear that Bucky was sorry for everything that had happened—for the blind rage that had made him see Walker as a monster trying to take the place of an old friend. He didn’t want to hear Bucky say he was sorry about Lemar’s death, about being discharged from the army, about his marriage falling apart. He’d heard all that before, and none of it had dulled the corrosive, black tightness that had settled beneath his ribs—the one that made him a hostage to his pain, his mind, his failures.
“You don’t get to come here to feel better, Bucky. I can’t be that kind of bandage for someone—especially when I’ve got nothing left to offer as one. It’s done. We deal with what we have, and with what’s thrown at us. That’s what we do.”
Walker stood, now looking down at Bucky, seeing those cold blue eyes that could easily mirror his own.
“You know the way out whenever you’re ready to leave.”
He didn’t give him time. Didn’t give him space to reply. He just walked down the hallway toward his bedroom—a room with only a mattress on the floor, no bed frame. The sheets were clean and white; even with his world upside down, he still had his habits, his routines.
When he dropped onto the mattress, he stared at the ceiling, one arm folded beneath his heavy, tired head. He didn’t count the minutes, but his inner clock told him Bucky had stayed in that empty living room for almost twenty minutes before Walker heard the door close behind him.
They were his broken pieces, marked for clearance—but no one ever had room at home for something shattered and worn out by time.
The intercom buzzed.
Walker glanced at the screen—the blurry image of Bucky caught by the grainy security camera. He unlocked the door; there was no reason not to. Not when Bucky was the only person who still came by, the only one who still texted him—aside from Valentina’s orders and those often-questionable missions. But Walker wanted to clean up his image, and he needed to stay busy.
“Got lost on your way home?”
It had been a while since the last time. Bucky was sporting a new haircut—longer than it had been back when John had dealt with him, back when John had fought him.
“I think my place has gotten too furnished for me to actually feel comfortable in it.”
It was strange, being that honest with someone. But the moment Bucky stepped into that apartment, he knew Walker would understand. Not much had changed there—a new stool to keep the other company, and now a couch. Small, awkward-looking, barely big enough for two people to sit. Bucky suspected it was Walker’s attempt to make the place look livable, maybe in case Olivia ever came by, or brought their son with her.
“Life as a congressman must be tough. Poor thing—big, furnished house.”
There was that edge of sarcasm in Walker’s voice, and it was exactly what Bucky needed, what he longed for.
Without Sam by his side, he was more alone than ever… and luckily—or maybe not—Walker was too.
“You wanna stay?” Walker asked, pointing at the couch.
“And have an uncomfortable night’s sleep?” Bucky grimaced but was already shrugging off his leather jacket, setting it over the stool—the same way he’d once seen Walker hang up his towel. “Yeah, seems like exactly what I need.”
Walker let out a breath through his nose—something that could almost be mistaken for a laugh—as he walked to the bedroom and came back with a pillow and a sheet, tossing them against Bucky’s chest. He knew Bucky’s reflexes would catch them easily, and he was right.
There was no alcohol this time, no halfhearted conversation meant to make Bucky feel better—or to let him try, sincerely, to make Walker understand how sorry he truly was for everything he’d said and done.
In the end, Bucky didn’t lie down on the couch. His body wouldn’t fit anyway; it would’ve been peak discomfort. Instead, he spread the sheet on the floor and set the pillow down, the way he used to do in his own living room at the old apartment. The difference was the smell—it lingered everywhere: in the sheet (which he knew was clean), in the pillow, throughout the apartment. It smelled like Walker. It wasn’t bad. And it was strange how easily Bucky could recognize that scent—but now wasn’t the time to think about it.
When morning came, he smelled coffee. Strong and hot, with the faint hiss of something sizzling in the pan. He sat up, eyes taking a moment to remember where he was—as if he could’ve forgotten that he’d actually slept in John Walker’s almost-empty living room.
If someone had told him that months ago, it would’ve been a good joke.
“I hope you don’t mind breakfast.”
Walker was in the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, a white shirt clinging to his body as if trying to trace every line and press it into the fabric. Sweatpants. Bare feet.
“Rough night?” Walker asked, glancing over his shoulder as Bucky stood, folding the pillow and sheet over the back of the couch.
“One of the worst nights of sleep I’ve had in months.”
There was a hint of a smile there—on lips still damp, in eyes marked by the quiet weight of time.
Walker set the bacon and eggs on a plate, poured coffee into a mug, and placed it on the counter. He served himself too, then sat down. Bucky sat beside him. A silence settled between them—comfortable, not awkward or uneasy.
“If you ever need to…”
It was a real offer. Bucky could feel it.
Walker had lost his friend, his wife, his son, his marriage, his dignity, his title, the shield… and yet he still managed to be a selfless idiot. It was those similarities that split Bucky open, cracked him enough for a flood of guilt to seep straight into his core.
“Didn’t know you could cook,” Bucky said between bites, the hot coffee finally helping him wake up for real. Unfortunately, he’d actually slept well on that wooden floor.
“Well, I don’t, really…”
He wanted to add that he didn’t cook when he was alone—that his MREs had been his usual meals, along with whatever he picked up on the streets before heading home. Cooking just for himself was a reminder that he was alone. And after so long with Olivia as company, being alone still felt a bit too cruel.
“This was just… a distraction, I guess.”
“The distraction’s good, Walker.”
John allowed himself a quick glance at Bucky, something almost superficial over his right shoulder—but there was a flicker of something close to happiness there, watching Bucky eat the eggs and bacon. The metal fingers of Bucky’s arm drummed lightly against the counter, barely audible—except to Walker, with his sharp hearing.
That had been the last time they saw and spoke to each other—until Bucky caught them in the middle of an armed convoy. Until he forgot that he actually knew Walker and ended up revealing information he probably would’ve preferred to keep quiet—judging by the look on Walker’s face and the way Yelena had stared back at him.
That had been the last time they’d talked in a neutral space, before they were basically forced to live together in that Tower.
The first few weeks… were awful.
None of them were really sure what counted as shared space and what was considered private. Not when they all felt like live wires in that enormous tower—with too many floors, too much technology, and far too much space for them to ever feel truly comfortable being that far from one another.
In the end, after two weeks of trial and error, they decided they’d all stay on the same floor.
Valentina had said there was no need for that—that she’d secured the place to give her New Avengers the best accommodations possible. Still, Ava and Yelena had chosen nearby rooms, with a shared lounge between them—almost like a girls’ club in the middle of the rest of the team.
Alexei’s room was extravagant, decorated in ways that were questionable and far too cheerful for a nearly two-meter-tall Russian. Bob had his own personal retreat, the room sitting near the fork of the hallway—right between Yelena and Ava’s side and the rest of the quarters.
Walker had taken the room at the end of the corridor, just like Yelena and Ava’s. His had access to a private sitting area and a small kitchenette—connected to the room next door.
Bucky’s room.
Not that they crossed paths there often. Most of their meals were in the main kitchen, and whenever they had time off, they watched movies in the main living room—almost like a family of six lived there, rather than a collection of engineered and enhanced weapons.
It took another three weeks before Walker and Bucky finally ran into each other in that little kitchenette. It was late—or maybe almost early, depending on how one saw it. The open fridge light spilled across the room, outlining Walker as he grabbed something inside.
Bucky waited patiently. He watched the blond man bathed in the glow of the fridge light, a bottle of water in hand, bare-chested, dog tags resting against his skin—still branding him like hot iron.
“I thought you didn’t wear those anymore.”
Walker followed Bucky’s gaze to his chest.
With his free hand, he reached for the tags, turning the plates between his fingers—as if touching them with a strange kind of care.
“They’re not mine.” He let them fall back against his skin, maybe because Lemar’s name would’ve burned into his fingertips if he’d held on any longer. “I was given them—they’ve been waiting for the right time.”
“The right time?”
Bucky leaned back against the cabinet, looking relaxed, though he could feel the weight of what Walker was feeling—and trying to ignore.
“When wearing them wouldn’t feel like staining his legacy,” Walker said quietly. “But instead… where I could be a better version of myself.”
Growth.
That was what Bucky saw—a different Walker, one willing to move forward, not just accept what was thrown his way. A man who knew the choices he’d made in the past, who he had been, and who he wanted to become.
“Maybe he’d like what you’re doing here,” Bucky said at last.
It was true. He hadn’t known Lemar well, but he was certain Lemar would’ve been proud of the Walker standing in front of him—the golden boy who had fallen and risen again; the man who now made the right choices; the man who would pull a stake from his own shoulder to help a friend in need; the kind of man who knew how to speak words that lifted others.
“I hope so.”
Walker twisted the cap off the bottle and took a sip. His bare feet padded quietly across the floor as he made his way back toward his room.
“Good night, Bucky.”
He stopped halfway there, heels turning against the floor as he looked back toward Bucky, who still stood in the small kitchenette.
“Still having trouble sleeping in comfortable places?”
“Unfortunately.”
Bucky really did look tired—not just from the stress of the move, or the occasional missions, or his rocky relationship with Sam Wilson. Walker knew the signs of someone who wasn’t sleeping well, and even though both of them were super soldiers, there was a limit to how much strain a body could take.
“You know… there’s a terrible couch in my room. I’m this close to getting rid of it—it’s that uncomfortable.”
Bucky gave a nasal little laugh, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening as he shook his head and followed Walker.
The couch was strange—the backrest was far too low to sit and sprawl comfortably, but for lying down, it did the job. It was just big enough that Bucky’s body fit almost comfortably, though his feet rested higher against the armrest. Still, he had a pillow and a blanket, and from there, he could see the outline of Walker’s body on the bed. From there, he could smell Walker—his scent embedded in the room itself, in the pillow, in the blanket he’d lent him. From there, he could hear Walker’s breathing—steady and rhythmic, softening when he finally drifted off to sleep.
From there, Bucky smiled, realizing how oddly comfortable he felt in the same space as Walker—that the sound of his calm, even breathing actually helped him relax.
That wouldn’t be the only night Bucky spent in Walker’s company. Whenever they ran into each other in that shared kitchenette, and Walker noticed the exhaustion written all over Bucky’s face, he’d offer that awful couch again.
But the first night the invitation wasn’t made that way was after a mission—a rescue, of course—one that had left both of them sore and bruised. Walker was fairly sure he’d cracked a few ribs, but he didn’t complain. Despite everything, the mission had been a success.
They sat in the shared living room, drained. Walker’s shield leaned against the sideboard that was usually empty, meant to hold their gear after missions.
“I think I broke a few ribs,” Bucky muttered.
“Welcome to the club, then.” Walker grimaced, his hand instinctively moving to his side, pressing lightly over the area, though the combat suit made it hard to check properly.
Bucky didn’t notice—but Walker did.
He stayed quiet as Bucky crossed the room toward him.
Until his hands—flesh and metal—found Walker’s side.
Until his fingers located the zipper of Walker’s suit and pulled it down carefully, revealing the white undershirt beneath.
Bucky seemed to be running on instinct—a soldier helping another soldier.
Walker let himself be guided, one arm, then the other slipping out of the suit until the upper half hung down over his legs, draped across his back like something left behind.
He flinched slightly at the touch of cold fingers against his skin—Bucky’s hand lifting the edge of his shirt to reveal his injured side. There was a tenderness in that touch Walker never would’ve expected, a gentleness that didn’t match the vibranium hand, or Bucky’s icy blue eyes…
“Take a deep breath.”
Bucky kept his hand against the almost feverish heat of Walker’s skin, and Walker did as he was told. His lungs expanded as they filled with air, his fractured ribs creaking painfully inside his bruised body.
Walker dared to look down—at Bucky’s hand gripping the hem of his shirt, and the other resting against his body, the contrast between metal and the deep purple of his bruises. He swallowed hard. He’d never been this close to Bucky before—not in that old apartment when they sat on the floor, not when they shared coffee, not during the time they’d lived together in the Watchtower.
“You’ll live.” Bucky looked at him—really looked at him. Blue meeting blue, but Walker didn’t find his gaze cold, not at that distance, not when even Bucky’s vibranium hand didn’t feel cold anymore against his skin.
“Let me see.” Walker tilted his head, chin lifting slightly to gesture for Bucky to take off that damn suit.
Bucky obeyed, stepping back just enough to reach for the top half of his uniform. His movements were slow, careful—his grimace revealing the discomfort—until Walker reached out to help, tugging at the sleeves so the upper part fell free, revealing the shirt underneath.
“The shirt too.”
Walker waited patiently, almost reaching out again, but Bucky managed on his own.
“No dinner first, Walker?” Bucky quipped, trying to lighten the air that had grown heavy between them. The weight of Walker’s gaze made his head spin. He pulled the shirt off with his left arm, over his head, baring his torso—marked with bruises of his own.
Walker’s hand found his back, guiding him to turn slightly so he could examine his right side. His calloused fingers brushed the skin with surprising care, as though afraid to hurt him more than he already was. Not long ago, they’d been the ones to wound each other—now they stood in that shared room quietly assessing the damage others had done.
“No couch for you tonight, Bucky.” Walker’s voice was calm, his hand still resting against Bucky’s ribs, his touch almost reverent. “You need a proper bed. By tomorrow you’ll be good as new.”
“You didn’t even buy me dinner, and you’re already talking about bed?”
Walker turned crimson—not just a faint flush from embarrassment, but red, the kind of red he got after long runs back to the Tower, or during one of those make-out scenes on movie night—something Bucky had definitely noticed. He was red like a ripe tomato, ready to be picked and bitten into.
“Don’t think too hard, Walker. I can almost smell the smoke.” Bucky’s words came with a teasing grin as he stepped away, still shirtless, the discarded fabric hanging from his hand as he headed for his room. He needed a shower—and leaving Walker behind with that expression on his face was, hands down, the highlight of his week.
Walker was already in bed when he heard the knock on the door.
It was a familiar sound — he knew that, at that hour, it could only be Bucky. No one else would come to his room at one in the morning — except for Yelena that one time, but she’d only come in to grab one of his many pairs of socks, claiming she’d forgotten to put hers in the dryer. As if Walker didn’t know she always stole a pair to sleep in, because his socks were bigger than hers, keeping her feet warmer and cozier.
“Come in.”
Bucky opened the door. He wore a tank top that covered his torso and a pair of pajama pants that Walker recognized — after all, there had been a few nights when Bucky had made the couch in his room his makeshift bed.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Walker asked, though the answer was obvious — Bucky wouldn’t be at his door otherwise.
“It’s a bad habit, I know. But I got used to sleeping here.”
Walker sat up, his feet touching the floor as he nodded, silently giving Bucky permission to close the door behind him.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch like that.” He spoke before Bucky could sit down. Then he stood, his steps almost gliding across the floor — soundless, effortless. For someone his size, it was almost funny how quiet Walker could be; probably a habit from childhood, sneaking around the house so his parents wouldn’t wake when he couldn’t sleep.
“You’ve got fractured ribs too, Walker. We’ve been through worse — I promise sleeping on the couch is the least of my problems.” Bucky’s hand reached out to stop him, resting lightly on Walker’s arm.
“I wouldn’t sleep well knowing you’re stuck on that awful couch, not like this.”
He didn’t pull away from Bucky’s touch. He was comfortable with it — with the closeness. It didn’t throw him off, didn’t feel like an invasion of his space. It was just Bucky, and his hand on his arm.
“Well, I could sleep in the bed.”
“Excellent.”
“And so could you. It’s big enough that we’d be like… on opposite poles.”
He wasn’t wrong — the bed was big enough, even for two tall men like them. There was more than enough space to lie side by side without their bodies having to touch, without sharing anything more than the same air.
“You’re asking me to sleep with you?”
“You know that, said like that, it sounds like we’re about to do something else, right?” Bucky replied, his tone teasing as he stepped toward the bed, his hand still on Walker’s arm, tugging him gently along.
He’d seen it countless times — the side of the bed Walker always chose — so it wasn’t hard to guide him there and take the other side for himself. His back met the cool fabric of the sheets, and suddenly every one of his senses was overwhelmed by Walker. His presence. The weight of his body pressing into the mattress, making Bucky’s own body respond with a faint vibration. The smell of his shampoo and soap — and beneath that, the scent of his skin, something deeply his, something that had been burned into Bucky’s thoughts ever since he’d first truly noticed it, so long ago…
“Good night, Walker.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Walker lying on his back, an arm draped over his forehead as if there were a light hurting his eyes — though there wasn’t any. Bucky caught the brief wet glint of his lips before Walker turned his face slightly, like he wanted to look at him but didn’t quite dare.
“Good night.”
There was an arm’s length of space between them — Bucky knew precisely, because he had stretched out his vibranium arm and still hadn’t touched Walker. Valentina really had invested in their comfort at that Tower...
Falling asleep to the sound of Walker’s breathing had become his new lullaby — something that brought him comfort, safety, solidity, peace...
Waking up around three in the morning with weight on his chest, though — that was new.
A hand lay flat against his torso. Warm. Steady. Present.
Bucky turned his head slightly — Walker had shifted closer. Not too close, but no longer clinging to the edge of the bed like before. His hand was on Bucky’s chest, his face turned toward him, blond hair tousled against the pillow, beard neatly framing those lips Bucky had found himself paying far too much attention to lately.
He moved a little, testing how much he could shift without waking Walker — and then froze when he felt a leg draped over his own. Not heavy, just… there. Warm. Comforting. The kind of warmth Bucky hadn’t felt in a long time, the kind that made him want to belong.
And when Walker stirred, thankfully not waking but nestling even closer — like Bucky was one of those oversized pillows people hugged to sleep — he felt the man’s breath ghosting against his face and neck...
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was screwed when it came to sleeping alone after this.
Walker felt something against his nose — like his own breath bouncing back at him, which didn’t make any sense.
So he opened his eyes.
There were dark strands — hair and beard. There was also a neck, and a scent he knew all too well. And there was the complete absence of distance. His face was practically buried against Bucky’s neck, and judging by how deeply they’d both slept, neither seemed to have minded.
He moved his head, just a little — enough to see that Bucky was still asleep. Slowly, carefully, Walker lifted his arm, cautious not to make any sudden movements that might wake him if he pulled away too fast.
What proved harder to separate, though, were their legs.
His left leg was tangled with Bucky’s right, and there was a comforting weight on his thigh — Bucky’s hand.
He slipped away inch by inch, the loss of contact prickling against his skin as though something had been taken from him.
When he finally managed to free himself, he stood up right away, not giving his body a moment to sit or adjust. He headed straight for the bathroom and locked the door behind him — something he never did. But after sharing a bed, apparently anything was possible.
Walker had two major problems:
First — he’d slept better than he had in a very long time.
Second — was below his waist, inside his sweatpants.