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Bucky’s breath hitches as Tony’s hand slides from the metal shoulder casing to Bucky’s chest.
“You all good, Terminator?” Tony asks and then removes his hand.
Bucky gives a short nod, despite the ache in his body. Tony’s fingers had sparked heat where they had rested against Bucky’s skin, but now those spots were cold again. Was it the hitch in Bucky’s breath that gave him away, or the way that Bucky had tensed when Tony had touched him? Either way, Bucky wishes Tony was less observant, so that Tony wouldn’t have noticed and would’ve kept his hand on Bucky.
Bucky wants it, even if the touch only prods at Bucky’s hunger.
Tony returns his focus to the wiring of the metal arm in front of him, a few of the panels in the shoulder open for Tony’s work.
Bucky sits, completely still, even as his stomach twists. He’s hungry, so hungry. It doesn’t matter how many second, third, or fourth servings that Steve plops onto Bucky’s plate at dinner. Bucky is always hungry, and food doesn’t satisfy his cravings.
Bucky hadn’t known, at the time, what he’d said yes to while in Hydra’s pit. Even as he’d been in the hands of Hydra, turning into the Winter Soldier, Bucky hadn’t known the types of things that could exist in the dark. In the dark, in the cold, in the pain, Bucky had heard the whisper of a question and sobbed out a yes, only knowing, somehow knowing, that whatever it was, wasn’t Hydra. It wouldn’t ever be Hydra, and it would give Bucky strength to survive.
And so Bucky had survived, survived Zola and Pierce and everyone, but now he hungers.
Bucky aches with hunger.
It had been easier without the Avengers, easier outside of Stark Tower. Bucky had brushed up against people - in the market, down the street, in the packed line at the bars. It had been easier even in Hydra, as the techs and scientists and handlers had no problem pushing Bucky around, pushing and touching their Asset and property.
Now, Bucky’s space is respected. Now, Bucky is among friends, or at least those who will become friends, and Bucky is happier than he’s been since the War started.
But he hungers.
Sure, Steve brushes Bucky’s arm or wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. Sam claps Bucky on the back. Even Clint has jostled Bucky in fun. These touches have kept Bucky from completely starving, like little sips of water on an empty stomach. They help, but they don’t satisfy.
And they don’t compare to the sparks of heat that Tony sets off with his bare fingers brushing against Bucky’s skin.
“Almost done here,” Tony murmurs softly as he peers in close to Bucky’s arm.
Bucky thinks that it has something to do with how much Tony offers of himself during contact. Tony gives with every touch. He doesn’t hold himself back or have defenses, not in the Stark Tower. Bucky gains more from that brush than he does from Steve’s too-careful handling. Bucky is still the Winter Soldier, is still a danger, is still too new, and of course the Avengers treat him carefully, warily. Especially Steve, who tries not to scare Bucky into running away.
All except Tony, down here in the workshop, willing to work on Bucky’s arm and give Bucky samplings of Tony - hot and bright and satisfying - with the occasional brush of Tony’s fingers on Bucky’s skin.
Bucky would ask for more, would reach out and take, if only he wasn’t completely terrified that he would devour Tony completely in the process.
“There we are,” Tony cheers as he takes a small cloth to some inner part of the shoulder joint. “All Stark-ed up and ready to go for another seven decades if that’s your thing, popsicle freezing not required.”
Bucky watches Tony’s dexterous hands as Tony closes up the panels in Bucky’s shoulder again.
“Thank you,” Bucky grunts.
“All a part of the service, Buck-a-roo,” Tony says. He stands and gives Bucky a pat on the shoulder, a signal that they’re all finished.
Only the edge of Tony’s pointer finger finds skin instead of metal, and Bucky closes his eyes to better taste the touch. Heat, electric and sharp, buries itself in Bucky’s skin and goes right to Bucky’s chest. The ache in Bucky’s body roars, crying for more, but Tony’s hand is already moving away.
Bucky’s hand, the right one, reaches out and grabs Tony’s. Bucky can’t stop himself. Warmth fills him, tingling up his arm as he grips Tony’s hand. It’s delicious and too much - Bucky wants to bite, to lick, to taste, as he fills himself on Tony’s touch.
Only Tony is frozen, eyes sharp and focused on Bucky’s face.
Bucky clears his throat and relaxes his grip on Tony’s hand, though can’t quite let go yet.
“Thank you,” Bucky repeats, slow and careful. “It’s not… I don’ expect it. Thank you.”
Tony smiles, a quick weak thing. He nods though, and then squeezes Bucky’s hand.
A rush of heat sparks up Bucky’s arm from that, and Bucky closes his eyes and savors it.
“Got it. Really though, Frosty. Anytime. Don’t be shy,” Tony says kindly. “All you need to do is ask.”
Bucky nods and then slowly, painfully, lets his hand drop from holding Tony’s. The ache in Bucky’s chest protests, despite that Bucky is more full than he’s ever been. He’s still hungry, and he focuses on Tony as Tony walks away. Bucky wants so much more, but he also knows that a feast is not what you give a starving man.
Bucky needs slower, smaller amounts to start to fill his hunger. Maybe that’s all he needs, too. Bucky has never reached the point of feeling completely full and isn’t sure what it will take.
Bucky licks his lips. Satisfaction is something he shouldn’t even dream about.
“Feel free to hang around, if you want,” Tony offers as he pulls up a screen with a schematic for something Bucky has never seen before. “Or not, if you don’t. No worries.”
Bucky smiles. “Yeah, I’d like to stay. If you don’ mind.”