What happens if Bucky was rescued after he fell from the train but Steve still went down in the Valkyrie? Told through a series of snapshots of his life, Bucky navigates is way through his grief over the loss of his best friend and the secret love of his life.

This is a story that I am publishing in separate parts on Archive of Our Own. If you've read it there, it's exactly the same here, just condensed under a single story title instead of divided into multiple parts within a series.

1945

Bucky sat propped up in his hospital cot and, once again, cursed his left arm. Or, rather, the lack of that arm. He glared down at the empty space where the limb should be. If he hadn't fallen from that goddamned train and lost the thing, he'd be with Steve right now, raiding Schmidt's final stronghold. Not only had his fall cost the team their best shot, it had also lost them precious time; Steve had refused point blank to go on with the mission until Bucky had been found. While Bucky had somehow survived in the snow, Steve and every man he could round up had searched the Swiss Alps until, miraculously, Bucky had been saved. Not that he wasn't glad to be alive and all, but that had given Schmidt yet more time to hatch his plan and gather resources. Steve needed him, but Bucky had been benched.

I could still shoot a pistol with one hand, he groused to himself. Sure, he was best with a sniper rifle, but he was a marksman; he could adapt. He had argued until he was blue in the face. Not a soul had budged. Even though he was healing well, as long as he was down an arm, he was on the sidelines.

He closed his eyes against a fresh throb of pain. He was healing alright—too fast, actually, for a normal man, but that wasn't something he felt like ever thinking about, just like how he was stronger and faster than he'd been before Azzano. Anyway, he was healing, but his missing limb continued to agonize him. They couldn't even give him pain meds; as one more gift from Azzano, he burned through both medicines and booze too fast to dull the pain of his stump. He had a stump now.

The only thing more intense than the pain from the spot where his arm should be was the sheer, unadulterated terror that had gripped him ever since Steve left for the raid. A medic had wheeled Bucky out to watch Steve, Colonel Philips, Agent Carter, and all the rest of the Howling Commandos leave, and, from the moment he'd watched them go, a pit of ice had formed in his stomach, stealing his breath and chilling him to the bone. Bucky had never been a believer in sixth senses or premonitions, but he'd be damned if something wasn't telling him that this was all wrong. Bucky was familiar with what it felt like to be worried about Steve Rogers. Oh, Lord knew that Bucky knew what it was to be scared for Steve. How many times had he bathed Steve's forehead with water to cool a fever? How many times had he thought to himself, Is this the one that does it? while Steve had gasped and gasped from an asthma attack? How many nights had Bucky held Steve's small, quaking form against his own trying desperately to keep his frail body warm in their drafty apartment? Bucky was intimately familiar with worrying about Steve Rogers. This was different, a whole new scale of fear he'd never touched on before, made worse, perhaps, by the fact that he didn't quite understand where it was coming from. Steve had proven himself more than capable in a fight, so had Carter and the Howlies. He had no justifiable reason to be this pants-pissing terrified.

That's what Bucky told himself, anyway.

Told himself that over and over again for hours and hours.

Right up until Agent Carter, with her face blotchy and eyes red, walked into the infirmary.

Bucky stumbled to his feet. His balance was shit now, and he listed to the right before he grabbed onto an empty IV pole. "No!" He shouted a denial. "No. No. Get the fuck away from me, Carter." The ice in his stomach spread all over him now, freezing his lungs and the blood in his veins. He gasped for air, but how could he breathe if his lungs were full of ice? He wanted to wave her away, as if that would stop the news that she had to give him, but he couldn't even do that. If he let go of the IV pole, he'd fall over. "No," he gasped brokenly.

There was only one reason Agent Peggy Carter would be looking at him with eyes made of despair and a face five years older than before.

She didn't speak until she was standing in front of him, less than a foot of separation between them. And when she spoke, her voice was thin and thick at the same time. Barely there but choked, like she was just hanging on by the skin of her teeth. "Steve was—was forced to take Schmidt's plane down over the water. There were nuclear bombs on board. They would've killed millions…"

Each word rang like a death knell in Bucky's mind. They whorled around and floated all together, jumbling up, until one simple meaning was formed: Steve was dead. His Stevie—his sunshine embodied who saw the good in everyone and never backed down from a fight—the heart in his goddamned chest—was gone. Bucky realized he had stopped breathing when black spots danced in his vision. He sucked in a ragged breath. Letting go of the IV pole, he allowed himself to collapse onto his cot. He stared down at the floor but didn't see it. How can I live in a world where Steve doesn't exist?

On his periphery, he noticed that Peggy sat down next to him. She didn't say anything more, or, if she did, he was deaf to it. She laid her hand on his. He felt the bed start to quiver. Realized she had begun to sob. He continued to stare blankly at the floor. He gripped her fingers in his hand.

The morning air was cold and crisp, the gray of night just beginning to concede to the light of a new day. Around him, Brooklyn bustled into life. The sounds of engines on the roads below grew in number and horns sounded occasionally, as the residents of this neighborhood weren't particularly known for their politeness nor their patience. Times were hard, and everyone had somewhere to be, pennies and nickels and dimes to scrape together. Shortly, Bucky would have to join their masses but not just yet. For now, he could allow the late autumn air to cool the heat from his dreams while he enjoyed a smoke. He tried not to smoke often because Stevie's lungs couldn't handle being around it (and he hated the smell besides), but Bucky was only human. He had his vices.

"I should draw you like that."

Bucky looked up at the murmured voice to find Steve leaning out of the window, a crooked smile on his handsome face. He had dressed for the day already but had wrapped himself in a blanket. With winter rapidly approaching and the building furnace doing little to combat the drafts of their apartment, Steve was always bundled up.

"Hey, punk. Close that window and get back inside. You'll catch your death," Bucky scolded. The words were familiar on his lips. Equally so was the way Steve ignored him and climbed out onto the fire escape.

"It's not that cold."

Bucky rolled his eyes and stabbed his cigarette out. It was almost done anyway. He lifted an arm. "Come here."

As bidden, the smaller man sat down at his side and scooted close until the sides of their bodies pressed together, Bucky's arm over his shoulders. They sat like this often, even during the warm months where neither of them had to worry as much about Steve's health. For Bucky, it was a treasure and a nightmare. By now, he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been hopelessly in love with his best friend. He thought that Steve must've won his heart the first time they met when Bucky had come across a tiny wisp of a kid getting the snot beaten out of him. Bucky had stepped in, put an end to the fight, and then Steve had had the gall to say, "I had that handled." From that day on, Bucky had finished every fight that Steve's sense of right got him into. And he'd never minded, no matter how much he'd warned Steve that one day he'd get into something he couldn't get out of.

"I hate bullies, Buck. I can't just stand by when I know something is wrong," he'd said. And Bucky, well, he'd never had a good argument against that.

Yeah, having Steve close like this was a treasure and a nightmare alright. A treasure because being close to Steve, taking care of him, keeping him safe—that was all Bucky wanted to do. The problem? The nightmare? Steve wasn't like him. Steve mooned over dames like a man should. It was a real cruel irony, really. Bucky had all the looks, all the charm. He could ask any pretty girl out to dance, and they'd say yes. He knew because that was what he did so that no one suspected he wasn't right. He could have any girl he wanted, but he didn't want a single one of them. He'd tried, really, but he'd been left so cold by their sweet, feminine scents and girlish giggles that he couldn't even manage second base. Meanwhile, his Stevie couldn't get any one of the girls Bucky set him up with to give him the time of day.

Which, okay, sure, Bucky wasn't too displeased about because he didn't want to share. But he didn't like that Steve was unhappy. He hated that Steve thought he wasn't good enough to attract a woman. So Bucky kept setting up those double dates and died inside when Steve looked at the girls like they were the prettiest things he'd ever seen.

"What're you doing out here? It's cold," Steve muttered, pressing his nose against Bucky's shoulder.

"It's peaceful." He laid his head against golden hair. The scent of Steve—evergreen and fresh paper and male—insinuated itself into his senses. Made him want to close his eyes and bury his face in those thick waves, but he resisted. That was the sort of thing he could only get away with rarely, when they were tucked into a single bed to share warmth and they were each languorous with sleep. Then, sometimes, Bucky would allow himself to steal that simple pleasure.

"Mmm, I suppose. If you think traffic is peaceful."

"It was before you got out here. You jinxed it."

Steve huffed, warm breath fanning over Bucky's neck. It made him shiver, and he hoped Steve would attribute that to the cold. "You smell like cigarettes."

"That's because I just had one."

Bucky could swear that Steve rolled his eyes so hard that he could hear it. "I hadn't noticed."

They sat like that for a few more minutes until the chill started to sink into Bucky. Finally, he nudged Steve with his chin and joggled his arm a bit. "Alright, let's go inside. See what I can scrounge up for breakfast."

Steve yawned, like he'd actually started to doze off. "Sounds good."

When Steve climbed back through the window, Bucky didn't even try not to look at his backside. He was only human.

Bucky blinked out of his reverie, returning to the present and the bombed-out remains of a bar somewhere in Germany. The memory of that autumn morning in Brooklyn faded away as he picked up the whiskey bottle and took a long pull from it. He had been trying desperately to get drunk for the better part of two hours. The SSR had packed up camp and moved out in the days since Steve had taken Schmidt's plane down. Evidently, not even the tragic and untimely death of Captain America could delay their new orders from on high. So, as morose as they all were, they packed up and marched off for the front. Though it was clear the war was on its last leg, there was still work for their team to do. Even Bucky was along for the ride.

With only the one arm, Colonel Philips had wanted to ship him back to the States with a "thanks for your service" and an honorable discharge. Bucky had told him to shove it where the sun don't shine, the Howlies had backed him, and the Colonel had, to their mutual surprise, buckled. And so, despite being a one-armed sniper, Bucky had been promoted to the leader of the Howling Commandos.

Fuckity yay.

He drew again on the neck of the whiskey bottle then rubbed his stump. Howard had promised him that, as soon as they could get back to his lab, he would build Bucky a new arm.

"I've even got feelers out for more vibranium," Howard had told him earnestly. "I'll make you a new arm. It'll be better than the original." If Bucky had to guess, he'd say that Howard's response to grief was to try to fix whatever he could. He couldn't bring back Steve—though he was also talking about a recovery mission at the earliest opportunity—but Bucky needed an arm, so, even though they'd never interacted much before, this was now a Stark project.

And that was fine and good, Bucky supposed. He could really use his left arm. Having two hands really made a lot of things easier. What was he going to say? Oh, no, Stark, really, I'll just take a hook. Don't put yourself out. Nah, if Howard Stark wanted to make him a fancy piece of tech, Bucky would let him.

If only Stark could fix the hole in his chest. There was a vast, yawning, endless pain inside of him now that nothing could fix. Bucky drained the whiskey bottle and tossed it to the floor with the other one he'd finished. Perhaps if he just drank a lot of alcohol very quickly he could dull the pain.

He opened a third bottle.

"It's not going to work," came Peggy's quiet voice from the gloom.

He shrugged and took a very long drink. "Won't know until I drink everything in this bar."

She sat down next to him at the table and clunked down a tumbler. "Pour me one before you drink it all then."

He snorted softly. Disregarding all proper etiquette about drinks, he tipped the bottle against her glass and filled it to the brim. They both took a silent drink. He looked over at her. Peggy looked tired but otherwise put together. Her hair was curled and pulled back with nary a strand out of place. Her customary red lipstick had been applied; a print of it now smeared the rim of her tumbler. Bucky, the best friend, was drowning in grief, and Peggy Carter, the touted love of Steve's life, looked fucking fine.

From the moment Bucky had met Agent Carter after his rescue from Azzano, he'd known that Steve had finally met The One. After so many years of fruitless dates, Steve had met a girl who gazed back at him with just as much need and longing as he looked at her. And Bucky had hated her. He'd hated her even more when Steve had told him that even before his transformation, they'd had chemistry. Peggy Carter had looked at skinny little Stevie with a will too big for his body and seen exactly what Bucky had. He hated her because he couldn't hate her. She was just what he'd always been hoping Steve would find. As much as he'd hated her, he'd hated himself more for feeling it.

That hate had cooled over the recent days. Seeing Peggy as broken as himself had sparked a feeling of kinship between them. Right now, though, seeing her looking put together while he felt like he was utterly falling apart made it roar back to life.

For a moment, anyway. Until she said in a soft, broken voice, "I miss him."

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he'd been a more well-educated man, he could've strung together the right words to fully encompass just how much this loss struck him. As it was, all he could do was utter, "Me too."

She took another delicate sip of the amber liquid in her glass. "I know you do. It's why I keep seeking you out. We understand each other."

A spark of ire flared inside of him. She didn't know. She couldn't understand. She had loved him for a couple of years at most. Bucky had spent half of his life bespelled by Steve Rogers. Before he knew what he was saying, the words were already growling their way out of his mouth, "I loved him."

Brown eyes rose and met his. "I know."

His face twisted. "You don't. I—"

"James," she said forcefully, using his given name for the first time. "I know." The bluntness of her tone gave him pause, and she continued when he remained silent, though her voice had gentled. "I suspected you had…different feelings for him when I met you after your rescue. I noticed the way you looked at him when he wasn't looking at you. The way you've been since…well, the way you've been recently, I knew you must have loved him as I did."

There was silence for a long time.

Bucky didn't know what to think. The woman that Steve had loved had known that he had also loved Steve. And she'd never said a word to him about it. Nor, apparently, anyone else, since he was still a Sergeant and being queer was an express ticket to a blue discharge.

"He wasn't like me," he finally said in a low voice. "I—I don't want you to get the wrong idea about him. I never told him or—or did anything. He wasn't like that."

She smiled a little, just the barest curve of the corners of her lips. "I know." Bucky preferred not to think of how she might be sure of that.

"I really was happy for him. To have you, I mean."

That brought a little ghost of a laugh out of her. "No, you weren't. As much as I saw the way you looked at him, I also saw the way you looked at me."

He grimaced. "It's more complicated than that. I was happy for him, Carter—"

"Peggy. Let's dispense with formalities."

"Peggy, then," he agreed because yeah, sure, made sense. With what they were discussing, was there really room for a formal distance between them? "I was jealous as all hell, but you made him happy. You were right for him. He was gonna make you so happy, be the best damned husband like he always wanted. And you—" Bucky felt his throat getting tight. "You were gonna make him happy. Like I coulda never. But it's what I always wanted for him."

She looked at him for several heartbeats, eyes seeking his. He forced himself to meet her stare, blue looking into brown. "I think I do understand," she finally said quietly. A manicured hand reached out and found his rough and callused one.

He dipped his gaze down to their hands. Ran his thumb over her soft fingers. "Don't I disgust you?"

"No, you don't. Steve was very easy to love." She said it so simply, as if, of course, anyone who got close enough to Steve's magnetic orbit would fall into it, no matter what their sex.

"I'm really a queer," he insisted. Was he trying to drive her away? "I've been with men."

Her lips really did curl now, flashing her white teeth. "So have I."

Bemused, he shook his head. "Are all Brits like you?"

"I very much think not."

"Do you like women, too, then?" This blasé attitude would make sense if she liked men and women both. He'd met enough people like that.

"No." She stroked her fingers lightly over his forearm. "I just don't see what's so wrong about it. We love who we love."

Would Steve have reacted like this? If Bucky had gotten up the nerve to tell him the truth—part of it, at least—and admit that he didn't like women, would Steve have been so understanding? Probably, yes. They'd lived in one of the cheapest neighborhoods which meant it was filled with quite a lot of bohemian types. Many of them had been freer about what they got up to, and Steve had treated all their neighbors with the same respect. Bucky had just been too afraid of losing the closeness that he and Steve shared to tell him.

Impulsively, Bucky leaned across the table and planted one right on Peggy's lips. She let out a startled noise and leaned back, giving him a confused, wide-eyed look. He smiled at her, the first time that expression had come close to his face since Steve died. "You really are an incredible woman, Peggy Carter." All the hatred he'd felt for her bled away, a wound that had been drained and cleaned. If there existed any woman worthy of his best friend, this had been the one.

She laughed lightly, relieving a tightness he hadn't even realized was drawing her face until he was gone. "You're a pretty incredible man yourself, James."

He took her hand again, his thumb stroking out over the backs of her fingers again. "Call me Bucky."

"Bucky, then," she said, mimicking him. "How did you end up as Bucky, anyway? Why not Jamie?"

"It was Steve, actually." He eased back in his chair. Peggy scooted hers closer until he could feel the heat of her body close to his. "We met in 1930. Stevie was getting beaten up—which happened a lot in those days—and I stepped in. When I told him my name, he scrunched up his face and said, 'There's a million 'James's' around here. How about Bucky?' We were inseparable—and I was Bucky—ever since."

"Did he truly get into so many fights?"

He stretched his arm over the back of her chair. "Like you wouldn't believe. He could never stand a bully. He had plenty of his own—boys loved to pick on him for being small and weak, y'know—but that didn't stop him from stepping up for everyone else, too. The day I got my orders, some guy mouthed off in a movie theater, and, low and behold, I find Stevie getting his ribs kicked in in the alley."

"Tell me more?" She turned her face up to his; there was a sheen in her eyes, but she wasn't crying. "I'd really like to hear more."

So he did. Bucky told her about their trip to Coney Island where he made Steve ride the roller coaster. He told her about Steve's ma, Sarah, and how she'd worked herself to the bone to take care of her fragile boy with the heart of a lion. Bucky told her about things that only had meaning to him, like how it made him feel whenever he saw Steve was sketching him again and the fervor that he felt to take care of him when Steve was sick. And while he talked, they drew closer to each other. Bucky's arm dropped from the chair to her shoulders; her head tilted and settled on his shoulder. The smell of her shampoo drifted to him from the soft hair that brushed his cheek, and he didn't mind it at all. It wasn't flowery or perfumed, but the same generic soap scent that came with all their military-issued kit. Under his arm, she was warm and soft and alive. In her chest beat a heart just as broken as his own.

Against his shoulder, he felt her head move. The tip of her nose brushed over his stubbled jaw. She murmured his name; it made him realize that he'd stopped talking.

In the quiet of the ruined bar, Bucky turned his head and found her face so close to his. She was warm and soft and alive, and she was Steve's. The air between them crackled, and Bucky realized there was something like desire curling around inside of him. Steve had loved this woman, had touched and kissed her. He found his eyes dropping to her lips, still stained red with lipstick. They were so close, she must've noticed, but she made no move to pull away. Instead, her ruby lips formed just one word, "Yes."

Unwilling to let himself consider just why he wanted to do it, he dipped down the scant space that had separated them and closed his mouth over hers. The feel of her was different than he was used to. The lipstick was a texture he wasn't sure he liked and a taste that wasn't familiar, but the softness was nice, as was the heat and wetness of her mouth when she parted her lips and allowed his tongue to dart inside. This wasn't so different, a woman's tongue and teeth and mouth just the same as a man's, and he gave a little moan when her tongue stroked against his.

Peggy's hands came up and cupped his head, holding him in place. The way she took over the kiss made that flicker of desire fan brighter. He preferred to let his lovers take the lead. Had she suspected that or was she always the aggressor? Maybe she just knew he had no idea what to do with her. He decided it didn't matter; he didn't want to lose this tentative thing that was building between them. It didn't hurt, and that was good enough for him. He gave her another encouraging moan when she cupped the back of his neck and rose to her feet so she was bending over him. He wanted to feel controlled. Needed to let someone else take the wheel so his tormented thoughts could have a rest. It was probably selfish, probably not what Peggy was looking for, but, God, he was tired. Someone could take care of him for a change.

They both gasped for breath when she broke their kiss. She didn't go far, though. Her lips brushed his as she whispered, "Do you want this?"

He slid his arm around her, groaned in frustration when he tried to reach for her face with his left hand but there was no limb there to respond. He clutched her tighter around the waist. "Yes. Just—keep doing what you're doing. Keep—"

"Leading," she finished for him in a breathy voice. His groan this time was one of gratitude. Both for her understanding and for the mouth that found his again.

Time slid by in a haze of kissing until Bucky felt her hands on his skin and realized she'd unbuttoned his shirt. Tensing, he grabbed for her hand before she could push it off his shoulders. "You don't wanna see that." His left shoulder was monstrously ugly, a red mass of fresh, angry scar tissue jutting out from what remained of his shoulder joint.

"It won't bother me," she assured him. Looking at her, he realized they'd kissed away all of her lipstick until there was just a faint discoloration over her lips. He wondered if it was on him, too. Probably.

Reluctantly, he let her hand slip from his. The shirt slipped away, too, falling down to the floor. He braced himself and let her look. Fingertips feather light, she brushed touches over the stump of his arm above the barely-healed scars. Both hands came to rest on his shoulders. "I think you're beautiful, James."

He opened his mouth to argue with her then decided not to a split second later. It would kill this thing that they were doing, and he didn't want that. So instead of saying anything, he let the tension ease out of his body. He swiped his tongue over his lower lip in a way that he knew said come hither and tilted his head back. She heeded his call and returned her lips to his; he rewarded her by licking and sucking her tongue until she moaned and dug those painted nails of hers into his shoulders, the ten tiny points of sweet pain sending tingles over his skin.

They didn't speak again for a long time. Seconds turned to moments turned to minutes as they kissed like they were starved for each other. That was half-way accurate; they were each a substitution, and they both knew it. But it didn't matter. Peggy lost the top half of her uniform at some point, her own skillful fingers opening the buttons and unhooking the clasp of her bra. Settled on his lap, the heat between her legs pressing against his hardness, she guided his hand to one of her breasts.

"Touch me," she breathed. "Please."

What he wouldn't give for that arm Stark had promised him. He wanted to keep one arm behind her, keep her pulled in tight against him, while his other hand kneaded the softness of her breast. He had to make do with what he had, though, just like she did. So he stroked her breast experimentally, the first he'd ever felt. When he squeezed, she made a soft sound of approval and pressed into his touch. It wasn't unpleasant at all to fondle her. The firmness of muscle appealed to him more, but this was nice. He cupped her and rubbed his thumb over the nipple. The sound she made then was even more approving than the last, so he did it again, then pinched it gently. His own nipples had never done much for him, but hers seemed to be more sensitive.

"You like that?" He rasped. He pinched her nipple again and gave it a tug. The gasp and undulation of her hips was answer enough. That pleased him, that he'd made her feel good, so he leaned in and took her other nipple into his mouth. She moaned, sank her fingers into his hair, and held him against her as he sucked and tongued at her peaked flesh. Her hips ground down against his, putting delicious pressure on his straining cock, and his noises joined with hers in a melody of pleasure. He put his arm around her again, holding her against his body as he'd desired to before, and used his mouth on her, alternating between both breasts until her nipples were red and swollen and she was writhing on his cock.

"Bucky, I need you." She wrenched his head back, pulling his hair, and that made him buck his hips up into her. He wanted to tell her to pull his hair more, but her mouth was already devouring his in another fevered kiss, which was just fine with him.

Too soon, she pulled away from his grasp and stood up on legs that looked just a touch unsteady. "I want you." Left unspoken was the are you sure? that her eyes communicated, searching his. In answer, he stood up and fumbled—still unused to doing it one-handed—with his fly. Chocolate brown eyes fell to his red and aching shaft when he freed it from his underwear. "Lie on your back," she murmured huskily.

Bucky sank to the floor, happy to follow her command, not caring in the slightest if bits of rubble dug into his back. As she divested herself of the rest of her uniform, he ran his eyes over her. Had Steve liked the way her slim waist flared out to curving hips? Had he enjoyed the sight of the dark curls between her creamy thighs? His cock gave a pulse when he imagined Steve going to his knees and burying his face there.

Naked, Peggy straddled him and sank down to her knees. He could feel the heat of her sex, so close yet not quite touching his. Not yet. What would it feel like to be inside of her? How different was it from a man?

"You could get pregnant," he blurted. While true, he wondered where the realization had come from.

Undeterred, she said, "Tell me when you're close, and I'll pull off. Steve and I—" She cut herself off, looking stricken. She searched his face, like she was worried that the confirmation that Steve had slept with her would be the thing that sent Bucky running.

He had her, and so will I.

Bucky leaned up and grabbed her, just a little roughly, by the neck. He pulled her down to his mouth. If the sound she made was anything to go by, she liked a bit of manhandling. He bucked his hips up against her, the line of his shaft kissing her wetness for the briefest instant before parting. "Take me," he ground out against her lips.

Letting out a needy little noise, Peggy slid her hand between them. He hissed in a breath when it closed around his cock. Then lost that breath a moment later when she lined him up with her entrance and sank down onto him, heat and wetness closing over him.

He grated out a curse and thrust up into her. Her soft, full breasts pressed against his chest, and she was hot and tight and wet and so utterly unlike what he'd known before. I can see why some men will say anything to get a woman into bed. Above him, Peggy was still and the walls of her sex drove him mad, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing.

"Peggy, I—I need—"

"Just…getting used to the feel of you," she breathed. He couldn't see her face; she'd pressed it into his right shoulder. Was she having second thoughts now that she had another man inside of her?

"Are you…" He started to ask, but the words died on his lips. She had begun to move with little motions of her hips against his.

After a few moments, she sat up and braced her hands on his chest. Her face was flushed, lips kiss-swollen. "You feel good." Then she raised up and sank down on him until her hips met his. They both groaned.

Words stopped after that. Just as time had lost all meaning while they kissed, everything ceased to matter now. He may never have been with a woman, but he'd been ridden enough times to know how the dance went. He gripped her hip in his hand and rocked up to meet her each time she thrust herself onto his cock. Her eyelids drooped and then shut as she moved atop him, finding a rhythm that was fast and urgent, just like the need screaming inside of him. Bucky let his own head fall back, eyes slipping closed. Images and sensations blurred in his mind until he was a gasping, quivering mess.

He slitted his eyes open when she took his hand and guided it between her legs. Her flesh was hot and wet, the little bud at the top swollen and begging to be touched. Without needing to ask or say anything at all, he let her show him how to touch her, how to circle his thumb over her aching clitoris until she was the one gasping and shaking. He wondered if he would know when she came, but then he didn't have to wonder. She threw her head back and bit her lower lip, stifling a cry; at the same time, the wonderful tightness enveloping his cock spasmed around him, squeezing every sensitive inch of him until he had to struggle not to orgasm.

"Close," he groaned when she'd finally ridden out the last wave of her orgasm. He undulated his hips, driving his shaft into her slick, gripping heat. "So fucking close."

As promised, she pulled off of his cock. Instead of taking him into her hand as he'd expected, she settled back on top of him and ground her sex along his length. He looked down to where they touched and saw the head peeking out from beneath her curls. That surprisingly erotic sight was the last straw. Muffling himself against his arm, he moaned and shuddered under her, thrusting up against her wetness as he came across his stomach.

Peggy eased down onto his chest. He put his arm around her, spreading his hand between her shoulder blades. They lay together like that, skin sweat-slick and panting, for long heartbeats or maybe it was even minutes. Bucky wondered if he would regret what they'd done, but he decided that he wouldn't let himself. He had needed that. He had needed to be close to someone. He had needed, desperately, not to hurt for a while.

So he decided to make sure that the aftermath wasn't awkward.

Pulling together the dregs of the man he'd been before Azzano had forever changed something inside of him, he pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder. "I don't know how to break it to you, doll, but…" He paused for just a second. "I'm still queer."

She laughed in a surprised burst. Of all the things he could've said after what they'd just done, he knew that she hadn't expected that. "Oh, damn," she said teasingly. "I really thought that would do it." She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. A question.

He answered by giving her a real kiss. Once their clothes came on, he knew this would never, ever happen again. He'd never be in a place to want it and doubted she would either. So he kissed her with all the gratitude he felt and could never express over what she'd just given him. When their lips parted, they separated completely. They got up, cleaned themselves up, and put their clothes back into a semblance of order. Bucky helped her fix her hair (what help he, a man with just one hand could provide, anyway). As put together as they would get, they left the ruined bar together and went in their opposite directions.