Bucky sits on the counter, shirt off, smirking just a little as you wipe blood from his chest. “You gonna kiss it better, or just keep staring?” You scoff, but you can’t stop staring.

The cut on his ribs is shallow, but you take your time. Bucky watches your fingers like they’re holy. “I’ve had worse,” he murmurs. You reply, “Then stop flinching like a baby.” He grins. “Maybe I like the attention.”

You’re standing between his legs, dabbing antiseptic on a deep cut. His eyes never leave your face. Not once. “I’ve been shot before,” he says lowly. “But this? This is real torture.” You ask what he means. He leans just a little closer. “Having you touch me and not being allowed to do anything about it.”

The silence is thick, the kind where neither of you knows who’s breathing heavier. You gently peel his suit down, revealing bruised skin. He whispers, “You always this gentle, or just with me?” You pause. “Don’t start.” He smiles like he already won.

He tries to act unaffected — arms crossed, jaw set. But the moment you gently wipe blood from his lip, he catches your wrist. “You really shouldn’t look at me like that.” You whisper back, “I’m just doing my job. He lets go slowly. “Right. Your job.”

He leans back on his palms, letting you patch the cut across his ribs. “I should get hurt more often,” he teases. You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll aim for you next time.” He laughs, dark and quiet. “Only if you promise to put your hands on me again after.”