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[i]
Torres is like a puppy, Bucky thinks, somewhat unkindly, as Captain Falcon’s biggest fanboy trails the superhero with a bit too much eagerness. But, really, he can totally imagine the kid with a wagging tail. He’s just so excited, keeping pace with Wilson as they load the cargo plane, complimenting him on shield maneuvers that Bucky taught him. And Wilson, like an asshole, is taking all the credit like Bucky isn’t standing off to the side glaring at him.
Bucky’s not sure why Sam Wilson, of all people, is so good at getting under his skin, but he’s getting pretty damn tired of it. Boards the cargo plane without a word to either of his teammates – if he can even call them that – and tries to find a place to stash his gear.
“Hey, Barnes!” Wilson comes jogging up to him.
“What,” Bucky mutters.
“C’mon, man, don’t be like that,” Wilson wheedles. “I thought we were almost at the braid-each-others-hair stage of friendship.”
“What hair,” Bucky says, just to be an asshole.
“Aw, that’s uncalled for. You’re just being mean to me because I’m trying to be your friend.”
Bucky bites back a snarky comment. Takes a deep breath. Sam is – not wrong, but also not right. It’s maybe even good, that he’s trying to be Bucky’s friend. There certainly haven’t been enough of them in his long, long life. Steve, and Natasha, and maybe Yori, until he fucked that up. Shuri and Ayo, but he’s fucked that up, too, now. And Natasha’s dead, and Steve’s dead, so – well, Bucky should maybe try to temper his temper a bit.
He sighs. “I’m not being mean.”
“Sure,” Wilson drawls, “and you’re not a one-armed cyborg with memory issues, either.”
Actually cracks a grin at that. One of the only things he appreciates about Wilson is his ability to joke about what happened to Bucky. It’s dark humor, for sure, but Bucky figures as long as he’s actually dealing with his shit, he can have some dark humor. No one else seems to get that besides Wilson.
“Lo and behold, he smiles.” Wilson’s outright grinning, now, because he thinks he’s actually funny.
“I smile,” Bucky says. “When things are funny. Not my fault you’re rarely funny.”
“Rarely funny?” Wilson’s mock outrage nearly makes him smile again, it’s so over the top. “You wouldn’t know a joke if it danced naked in front of you with the shield on its head.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Wow. Exaggerate much?”
Wilson shrugs. “Seemed funny. You know. Like a joke.” Waggles his eyebrows as if that’s going to make the point, and Bucky has to turn away before he gives into the urge to laugh at the joke. He can’t go encouraging the guy; he might end up thinking he’s actually funny.
The rest of the loading goes relatively smoothly. The adventurous part of their trip happened hours earlier, long before their rendezvous, so Bucky isn’t really expecting any trouble. But, well, it’s always best to keep an eye on things. Especially in Madripoor.
Bucky’s really starting to hate the fucking place. Mostly he’s just tired of getting shot at.
Once they’re up in the air, Sam straps into the seat across from Bucky. Torres is still up front with the pilot, checking out all the equipment and asking a million questions. Whatever else Bucky thinks about the guy, he’s incredibly knowledgeable about what he does, even if his millions of questions eventually get old. And, God, Torres might even be growing on him a bit. Hard to be annoyed by the guy who’s just genuinely earnest. Bucky might be mean, but he’s not heartless, Christ.
“Here he goes again,” Wilson says, mouth tilting up at the corners.
Oh. Bucky hadn’t even realized he was staring. He’s not sure why he stares like that. Part of it is just to be annoying, sure. Another part, a pretty significant part depending on the day, is because he’s not actually used to talking. To making conversation. To giving voice to the thoughts inside his own head. Doesn’t matter how far from his brainwashing days he gets; some of those habits are hard to break. Sometimes it’s easier to sit there in passive silence, when words aren’t strictly necessary. And Wilson, despite all his harassment, actually seems to understand.
Steve never did. Steve wanted him to talk. Wanted to reminisce and catch up and talk about what happened to Bucky for nearly eighty years. He had expectations, shit, and Bucky might remember much of his early days, but he remembers that he always tried to never live up to expectations.
Things are… somewhat better, these days. Less staring, more talking. His therapist would have a fucking field day about it, if he still talked to her. But it’s just – it’s easier with Sam than it was with Steve. Sam’s got no expectations, except that Bucky cover his six. He doesn’t have to try to be Bucky-from-before, doesn’t have to tiptoe around his own macabre humor.
Wilson understands, though. Sure, he teases Bucky for staring, but the more time they spend together the gentler his teasing gets. Things are smoother now. Now that he’s picked up the shield and the mantle, now that the Flag Smashers are gone, now that they have a schedule of missions and a clear set of goals to accomplish. It’s almost peaceful, despite the number of times they’ve been shot at.
“You okay, man?”
Bucky’s stare focuses on the man across from him. The words are soft, just loud enough for his enhanced hearing to pick up, and Wilson’s whole expression is a picture of worry and concern. Even has a stupid little crease between his eyebrows. Makes something twist in Bucky’s stomach; has to look away and bite his lip. Then he realizes Wilson is waiting for a response, and manages to nod once.
He’s not, is the thing. All the contemplation on how things are better doesn’t mask all the empty holes in his life where other people should be. Doesn’t erase all the harm he’d done as the Winter Soldier. And – fuck, there had been a man in a bar in Madripoor that from the back, Bucky would have sworn was Yori. He was halfway across the bar before he realized it couldn’t possibly be him. It wasn’t, of course it wasn’t, but it threw off his focus long enough that they’d both gotten shot at and nearly jumped in the alley outside the bar.
And now that the mission is over, and the adrenaline is fading, he’s left to sit in this damned cargo plane and contemplate his failures.
In hindsight, he should’ve told Yori the truth from the beginning. But he didn’t know for sure, when he first met Yori, didn’t realize the truth of it until he saw his son’s shrine through the open door. Because Bucky might not remember names, might not remember his favorite color or what music he liked in 1940 or what his mother’s face looked like, but he sure as fuck remembers the faces of every single person he killed as the Winter Soldier. By then, though, he and Yori were friends, and Bucky was so desperate for some sense of normalcy that he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth.
It’s fucked no matter how he looks at it. There’s no way to spin it positively, no way to not make himself the villain, even in his own head. He sat next to Yori for weeks and weeks, dozens of lunch trips, holding onto the single piece of information Yori longed for, and did nothing about it.
“You sure?”
Bucky nods again. Doesn’t resume his staring contest. Can’t bring himself to meet Wilson’s eyes and see his concern. Not when Bucky doesn’t deserve it.
Thankfully, Wilson lets it go. It’s going to be a long flight back to New York City; they don’t need to spend the entire trip snapping at each other. So, Bucky closes his eyes and settles into a meditative routine he’d been trained to do while waiting for a mission to begin, after being thawed.
Doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He really, really doesn’t. Bucky doesn’t sleep much these days – insomnia is a bitch, and nightmares are worse – and he sure as hell never falls asleep anywhere unless he feels reasonably secure. Still can’t shake some of that conditioning, and it makes it damn inconvenient when trying to get shut eye on a mission.
But he does fall asleep, and his dreams are filled with Yori’s son, dying over and over again in all the most brutal ways that Bucky knows how to kill. All he can see is Yori’s face, watching him in horror. Can see the way he looked at Bucky after the truth came out, how angry he was when he realized that Bucky kept it from him.
Jerks awake with a start, gasping for breath, human hand clenched so tight on his knee that it’s going to leave a bruise. Wilson’s hand is on his shoulder – is that what woke him? Still feels so foggy; can still see Yori’s face like an afterimage superimposed across his vision. Tries to blink it away.
“Barnes,” Wilson says. It’s so soft, so fucking gentle, like he actually cares, and Bucky’s heart fucking hurts. Doesn’t deserve it after all the shit he’s done. No one should be gentle with him.
“’m fine,” Bucky mumbles. Closes his eyes. Takes several deep breaths. Can’t seem to make his hand relax. Everything feels so tense, deeply buried emotions roiling close to the surface, threatening to spill free.
“Bullshit. You have a nightmare?”
“What the fuck do you think,” Bucky says in the flattest voice he can manage.
“I’m tryin’ to help, man, you think you could stop being a dick for two seconds?”
And – yeah, maybe Bucky’s being too much of a dick. Doesn’t appreciate being called on it, but that doesn’t mean Wilson’s wrong. Fuck, Bucky is trying to cultivate friendships and all that bullshit. He’s not going to get very far if he keeps snapping at the one person who honest-to-God actually tries to reciprocate.
“Sorry,” he says to the floor.
“Wow, I wasn’t sure you knew that word.” There’s no bite to it, though, just dry amusement. A bit of ribbing because Bucky deserves it, not because he actually means it. Bucky’s getting far too good at reading Wilson’s moods and tones. “Seriously, though, you doing okay? I know you’re not going to therapy anymore. Just wanted to check in.”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” Or he would be, if only he could make his hand relax. But everything is still too tense, like his emotions are poised on top of a high wire, ready to tip one way or the other.
“Come on, you gotta relax.” Wilson takes his hand off Bucky’s shoulder and sets it down on top of Bucky’s. Makes Bucky jump. He’s still not used to people – to Wilson, really, because no one else ever actually tries – touching him. After all this time, he still tenses in anticipation of pain. And Wilson knows – how could he not, it’s written all over Bucky’s face – but he’s so gentle, so careful, that it only takes a few seconds for Bucky to calm down.
He lets Wilson pry his fingers up, smooth them out, rub a thumb across the tense muscles in his palm. It feels – good, he thinks it’s good. Still trying to tell the difference between good and bad, sometimes. But the way his skin feels electric wherever it touches Wilson’s is a good feeling, probably. Certainly makes his heart skip a beat, lurching in his chest like something’s happened.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky really doesn’t. Doesn’t even know how to put feelings into words. But Wilson’s so fucking gentle with him, and – cultivate friendships – and, and, and.
“There was a – a man, in the bar,” he says. Voice a bit ragged. “Thought he was my neighbor.”
“The Japanese man,” Wilson says, because it’s not the first time Bucky’s mentioned Yori. Just the first time in a while.
And that’s all your fault, a nasty little voice says in the back of his mind. Bucky resolutely pushes it back down.
“I – yeah.” Reaches his vibranium hand up to run through his cropped hair. Wilson’s still massaging the human one. It’s actually kind of distracting, giving Bucky something to focus on instead of the words spilling helplessly out of his mouth. “I killed his son.”
“You wanna tell me about it?”
“Nothing much to tell.” Bucky shakes his head. “Wrong place, wrong time. Couldn’t leave any witnesses, it went against my programming. Hotel Inessa, I think, but my memory’s fucking shot still. I remember his face, though. I remember how he begged me, how he told me he didn’t see anything. I remember feeling nothing when I shot him in the head.”
“Wasn’t you,” Wilson murmurs.
“I know. But it was. It was and it wasn’t, and it’s complicated.”
They sit in silence for several minutes after that. Wilson finishes with his massage, or whatever he was doing to Bucky’s hand, and then sits there with his hand on Bucky’s knee like they’re close or something. It’s… surprisingly nice, all things considered. Bucky clenches and unclenches his fist a few times, exhaling with each unclench. Feels some of the tension drain away. He can deal with nightmares; has been for a few years now, ever since they brought him back off ice for the last time.
“You wanna try to sleep again?” Wilson asks.
“I – don’t know.” Takes a deep breath. And another.
“It’s still a long flight back to the city. Might not be a bad idea.”
Wilson’s right, but Bucky’s nerves are all shot to hell, now, and he’s not sure he could sleep if he tried. Shakes his head, and then leans back against the wall of the plane, head tilted up. Next to him, Wilson’s pulling forward some straps and buckling himself in.
“What?” he says when Bucky looks at him. “I just – I’m here. If you need me.” Shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, and then pulls out his phone and goes back to scrolling through whatever book he’s reading.
Is this – is this what Steve felt? Bucky wonders idly. There’s a warmth in his chest. Feels like something’s lighter.
When they land, Bucky is jostled awake by a gentle nudge. Picks his head up off Wilson’s shoulder. He – fuck, he actually slept, doesn’t even remember falling asleep. Doesn’t remember any dreams, either. Can’t quite keep the contented smile off his face as they start the arduous process of unpacking their gear from the plane.
If Wilson’s a bit smug the rest of the day, well, Bucky figures he can deal with it. It shouldn’t be endearing, but it kind of is, in a way that makes Bucky think maybe they could be real friends.
[ii]
“I kind of figured you’d want to supervise the work crew.”
Bucky shrugs and sets his bag down on the couch. “I checked ‘em out, they seem solid. Plus they’ve done work for me before.” Of course, that’s not going to stop him from combing over every inch of his apartment upon his return. But, damn it, he’s trying to be a semi-normal ex-brainwashed-assassin. Scowling over their shoulders while they fix the burst pipe in his kitchen isn’t going to help the situation.
Wilson shrugs, too, in a suit yourself gesture, and motions toward the kitchen. “Feel free to browse my extensive collection of takeout menus,” he says. “We have plenty of options.”
“Damn, Wilson, you ever eat fresh food?” Bucky can’t help but quip. It’s worth it for the way Wilson’s mouth tilts up at the corners.
“This coming from the guy who hasn’t eaten a vegetable in seventy years,” he replies, voice going dry in the way that means he’s horribly amused by Bucky’s attempts at teasing. “Are you sure you don’t have scurvy, old man? You’re looking a bit bruised over there.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yes, bruised. And that clearly has nothing to do with how hard I got hit yesterday.”
“Man, I thought you were a super soldier. How’re you still bruised today?”
“It’s not instant,” Bucky protests. Huffs and turns toward the takeout menus. He really does have a lot. A shudder runs down his spine. Choice overload, his brain helpfully supplies in Dr. Raynor’s voice. Too many options for a brain still getting used to the idea of making its own decisions.
“You okay, man?”
And then Wilson’s hand is on his shoulder, and that entire side of Bucky’s body feels warm with his presence.
“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice comes out rougher than he wants. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry.”
Wilson doesn’t look convinced. He’s looking at Bucky, all gentle and serious, with that ridiculous little crease between his eyebrows he gets when he’s worrying about something. Lately, it seems Bucky’s been on the receiving end of that expression more often than not. It’s the kind of look that says either Bucky’s sharing, or Wilson’s never dropping the subject.
He thinks he’s supposed to mind that kind of ultimatum. But it maybe makes it a bit easier to share, knowing that it’s expected. That Wilson actually wants to help, and can’t do that unless Bucky forces out a few words about what’s going on in his head.
“Sometimes it’s still…” Bucky clears his throat again. “Too much choice.”
And, damn it all Wilson’s face smooths out and he nods. Too understanding for his own good. He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder, and then takes a pizza menu out of the stack. It’s a place they’ve ordered from before. Because Wilson has a ridiculous amount of tact and empathy, he drifts to the other side of the room, settling on the couch with the remote, and gives Bucky a minute to himself.
It’s ridiculous, is what it is, and Bucky’s almost made at himself. He hasn’t even been in the apartment for five whole minutes before his issues start causing issues. Has to stand there and take several deep breaths before his pulse manages to even out. Clenches and unclenches his vibranium hand a few times, and stares down at the countertop. Even now, even with how far he’s come, the smallest thing can tie his thoughts in a knot.
“You wanna watch a movie or documentary?” Wilson calls over his shoulder.
The sound of his voice is a bit grounding, and Bucky forcibly relaxes his shoulders. Two choices, he can do this. He can be a semi-normal human being for a while.
“Uh, documentary.”
“Nature or history?”
“Nature.” That decision is easier. History has too much baggage attached to it, even things he couldn’t have possibly had a hand in. Doesn’t need to watch the fall of Rome just to make parallels to some of the things he did as a brainwashed assassin.
“There’s a new one about pandas,” Wilson offers.
Pandas. Bucky takes a deep breath. Makes his legs move, walks over to settle on the couch next to Wilson. “Sounds good,” he says in as normal a voice as he can.
Wilson isn’t looking at Bucky. He’s flipping through the menu in his hands like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Still giving him time, still giving him space. Bucky is grateful for it, even if he doesn’t have the words to say.
“You wanna take a peek?” Wilson finally asks, glancing at him. The crease between his eyebrows is gone, but there’s a gentleness to his expression that speaks to how worried he still is about Bucky.
“Nah,” Bucky says. “You get whatever, I’m not picky.”
“Not picky, my ass,” Wilson grumbles.
“Not my fault you have terrible taste in pizza toppings.” It’s a weak one, but Bucky would rather fall back into their teasing routine, to imagine that it’s a normal evening uncomplicated by the mess in Bucky’s head.
“Mushrooms are a classic pizza topping,” Wilson groans.
“Yeah, yeah, just keep telling yourself that.”
“Fine, pepperoni.”
“And sausage,” Bucky adds helpfully.
Wilson gives him a look. “Sausage is weirder than mushrooms, you ass.”
Bucky shrugs. “And don’t forget the garlic knots.”
“How many garlic knots do I need to fill that bottomless pit you call a stomach?” Wilson gripes, but he’s grinning.
“I dunno, six orders?” Bucky tosses out a number just to fuck with him. “C’mon, you were friends with Steve, you can’t seriously still be surprised by how much I eat.”
“Asshole never did know how to share,” Wilson mutters.
Bucky snorts. “No, he didn’t.”
After that, they settle into the quiet companionship that Bucky is maybe starting to get used to. It’s easier than he thought it would be, being friends with Wilson. At his core – not that Bucky would ever admit this – Wilson is a genuinely decent person, who seems to have a deeper understanding of all the crazy in Bucky’s head than he would have thought. Maybe it’s his time as a counselor, or his own experiences with PTSD, or just his innate empathy, but it’s nice. With anyone else, Bucky would worry that he’d fucked up the night, made it weird. But Wilson’s so easygoing that he just gives Bucky a bit of time, and doesn’t force him to make open-ended choices, and gripes at him about eating the last slice of pizza until Bucky’s almost forgotten what happened. And nice is not a word that Bucky usually uses to describe his life, but it is. Simply, uncomplicatedly, nice.
Of course, it all dredges itself back up when it’s time to turn in for the night. Wilson brings him out a few blankets and a pillow, helps him make up the couch, and claps a hand on his shoulder to say goodnight. Bucky’s not an idiot. He ignores the all-too-inviting pillow and sits in the center of the couch, flipping through channels with the volume off. Every time something triggers him, he has a shit time sleeping, and he’ll be damned if he wakes Wilson up in the middle of the night after all the kindness he’s shown Bucky.
Unfortunately, life seems to have other plans for him. He’s exhausted; hasn’t been sleeping lately, the weight of nightmares preventing him from lying down to rest. Ordinarily he can go a few days without sleep before it really starts to become a problem. Something about the serum, he thinks, but he’s never quite sure. But it’s already been a few days, and the mission the day before was exhausting, and he’s maybe more comfortable in Wilson’s apartment than he cares to admit.
When he dreams, it’s of his last mission. Ripping the steering wheel out of Wilson’s hands, throwing him off a helicarrier, the plunge down to the cold river and his desperate scramble to save Steve’s life. Hates dreams like this, where he can remember in such vivid detail all the destruction he caused. Watches in horror when it shifts to two years later, to Zemo activating him. To barreling through the Avengers because he was a man on a mission, no thoughts in his head except mission.
Wakes with a shout, arms flailing, nearly falling off the couch in a tangle of limbs. Connects with something solid and shouts again, eyes still trying to adjust to the too bright lights of the room.
“Shit, man, you okay?”
Fuck, this was not how he wanted the night to go. Sits up, gasping for breath. Wilson’s standing over him, eyebrows creased, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Fine,” Bucky groans. Rubs the back of his human hand where it smacked against the coffee table. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, but there’s some blood where it scraped skin off. “Fuck.” He’s trembling, can’t make it stop. Can still feel Natasha’s throat under his vibranium hand. Can still hear the awful sound of Steve ripping through the elevator and dropping. Can still feel how fragile Wilson felt under his hands when Bucky sent him flying into the containment cell.
“Barnes. Barnes, can you hear me?”
“No,” Bucky whimpers. Isn’t even aware that he’s speaking. The vibranium hand clenches and unclenches. And it doesn’t matter that it’s a different hand, a better hand, a hand that never hurt the people he loves. Can still feel the way he tried to choke the life out of Steve, the shuddering of the helicopter as he tried to murder the one person who stuck by him and believed he was innocent.
“Bucky.”
Blinks back to the present. His left hand is clenched around his right wrist, the pain excruciating. Blood trickles from the scratch on the back of his hand.
“Oh, fuck,” he swears. Forces his hands to relax. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Can’t tell what his face is doing, but it’s wet. Tries to stand – isn’t sure what he’s going to do. Maybe leave? Wilson shouldn’t have to deal with this, he’s dealt with enough already. But Wilson’s right there, suddenly, hands on Bucky’s shoulder. Pushes him back down on the couch. And Bucky could fight it, could get Wilson off him in an instant, if he really wanted to, but he’s so fucking tired of waking up scared and alone.
And – it wasn’t just one person. Steve wasn’t the only one. Even if he was just following Steve, Wilson was there, too. Following after Bucky, chasing him down, bringing him back into the light. Believing that he’s more than just an irredeemable Hydra assassin.
So he lets his knees buckle. Falls back on the couch, heavy, too tired to school his face into something neutral. Wilson sits down beside him, a careful space between them.
“Bad one?” he asks.
Bucky nods.
“Want some tea?”
“I – what?” It’s not what he expected. Thought Wilson would ask if he wanted to talk about, thought he’d try to pry into Bucky’s brain like he’s getting too good at doing on missions. Bucky really doesn’t want to talk about. There’s nothing to go over – he’s made his apologies, and now he just has to live with the fact that he tried to kill the man in front of him on more than one occasion. But it seems that Wilson already understands. Just squeezes Bucky’s shoulder and gets up, walking toward the kitchen.
“You like fruity tea?” Wilson asks over his shoulder. “Or you want, like, green tea.”
“I,” Bucky clears his throat. “Uh, do you have chamomile?”
“Sure do. Gimme a sec.”
Bucky is immensely grateful for the opportunity to get himself under control. Wilson can’t see his face from the kitchen, can’t watch as Bucky scrubs any trace of tears from his eyes and assesses the damage to his hand. It seems mild; the cut is already pink around the edges, healing up. It’s just a scratch, no big deal. But his wrist is badly bruised, skin already purpling in the shape of his own fingers. It’s going to hurt for a few days. Going to make missions more difficult, since it’s his dominant hand. He wants to slam his fist into something, scream, anything to release some of this pent-up anger. But it’s all anger at himself, and he might self-destruct with the force of it.
And then Wilson is there, carefully stepping around him, and dropping back down onto the couch with two mugs in his hand. When he passes one over, their fingers briefly touch. A flash of heat darkens Bucky’s cheeks, and he looks away. The mug feels good in his hand; warmth chases away some of the chill he always feels after a Winter Soldier nightmare.
They sip their tea in silence. It’s… nice. Calming. By the end of the cup, Bucky’s breathing is almost back to normal, and so is his pulse. Still feels like it’s going to be a long night, but he’s actually feeling a bit better. Tea was one of the few things that Dr. Raynor suggested that he actually listened to. Though, it was mostly because it reminded him of the late 30s. Used to buy little tea bags in silk pouches for Steve whenever he saved up enough spending money. Kept ‘em for the days Steve came home bruised and purple all over, or vomiting from a bug going around.
Melts against the back of the couch. He’s so fucking tired, all of a sudden. Been days since he’s gotten a good night of sleep, and he’s fucking aching with it. Feels like his eyelids have weights attached to them. The tea was… maybe not his best idea, but whatever. He knows he’s going to have to go back to sleep.
“You wanna talk about it?” Wilson asks, so softly.
Half an hour ago, Bucky was going to bite his head off if he asked. But now he’s mellowed out, slumped against the couch, almost drugged with how tired he is. Still struggling to stay awake, but it’s a losing fight.
“Sorry I threw you off a helicarrier,” Bucky mumbles.
Wilson snorts. “Long forgotten, man.”
“Wilson,” Bucky groans. Tries to sit up. “I should –”
“If your next words aren’t go back to sleep, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Wilson says, but it sounds fond in a way that makes Bucky’s chest ache. “And, c’mon, when are you gonna start calling me Sam? All this ‘Wilson’ bullshit like we’re not friends.”
“Are we?” Bucky asks, because he’s too fucking good at punishing himself.
“Fuck, of course we are.” Wilson – Sam – rolls his eyes. “Shit, you’re sleeping on my couch. We got take out and watched a documentary. We’re practically best buddies, you and I.”
Bucky snorts. Lists sideways, towards Sam. Swears and tries to sit back up, but his eyelids refuse to open. The tea’s making him so warm, so sleepy, and he’s not sure how much longer he can resist. But he wants –
“Don’t want to… keep you up,” he slurs.
“Fucking hell, shut up and go back to sleep,” Sam grumbles. “I got you, man. I’m right here.”
It feels like the cargo plane again. Feels like someone actually cares about him, and Bucky’s really not sure what do with the emotions it sparks in his chest. He’s also, maybe, just a little too tired to examine it too closely. Lists sideways again, and can’t help the way his head falls on Sam’s shoulder. Sam tenses, briefly, and Bucky worries he’s fucked up again – but then Sam settles back against the couch, exhaling a little amused huff.
“Sleep, Bucky,” he whispers.
Sam’s so warm. It’s almost intimate, even though they’re not touching anywhere except head and shoulder. But Sam’s so warm, and it’s closer than Bucky’s been to another human being in, like, seventy years. It feels safe. Comfortable. Sam is there for him, and he doesn’t care that Bucky’s fucked-up brain woke him up in the middle of the night. Bucky exhales, and all the leftover tension sighs out of him. So, he does the only thing he can do. He relaxes down against Sam’s side, closes his eyes, and lets sleep carry him away.
In the morning, Bucky wakes with an awful crick in his neck. But he slept through the rest of the night without dreams. Can’t say for certain whether or not having another person there helped, but it certainly didn’t hurt.
They’ve listed to the side in their sleep, so that Sam’s mostly lying on the couch and Bucky’s lying half on top of him. It’s not the most comfortable position Bucky’s slept in – but, fuck, he doesn’t want to move. Sam’s still asleep, and Bucky can feel the rise and fall of his chest. Wishes he could repay Sam in some way for what he’s just done for Bucky.
“You really gonna start the day staring at me?” Sam mumbles. Doesn’t even open his eyes.
“Sam,” Bucky whispers. Sits up, pulls himself away. Feels colder, somehow, now that he’s not touching Sam.
“’m awake.” Sam groans as he sits up. “You sleep okay?”
“No dreams.”
“Good.”
And Bucky’s heart skips a beat when Sam smiles at him. It’s so fucking sweet, the smile of someone who’s just genuinely relieved to hear that Bucky slept alright, and it’s too much. Too much emotion, too much – well, everything. Bucky’s still not used to things being good.
“I should – I should go check on my apartment.”
“Of course. Go on, go check the perimeter, or whatever you’ll do the second you get back.” The sweet smile turns into an amused grin. “Lord knows your apartment must be the single most secure spot in the whole city.”
Bucky flushes. Isn’t sure why he does. Sam’s teasing has never had that effect on him before. Goes for nonchalance when he opens his mouth. “You’re just jealous of my skills.”
“Uh huh. Sure.” Sam stretches, thin t-shirt riding up. Buck about swallows his tongue. “You got plans later? There’s a new MoMA exhibit, thought I’d check it out. Wanna go?”
“I –” No, Bucky thinks, this is a terrible idea. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Cool. One sound good?”
“Yeah.” Bucky can’t think of any more words to say, but Sam doesn’t press him on it. Just stands up, stretching in a way that makes Bucky’s mouth dry, and goes to snag leftovers out of the fridge for breakfast. It’s – domestic, Bucky’s brain supplies and then deletes – nice. Yeah, nice. That’s definitely the word he’s going for.
Fuck. Bucky is so screwed.
[iii]
Of fucking course there’s only one bed.
Bucky resolves to murder Torres when they finally make it back to the States.
Their safe house is a tiny studio apartment. There’s a kitchenette by the door, but otherwise the space is taken up by a queen-sized bed. And, honestly, there isn’t much space for anything else. As far as safe houses go, it’s ridiculously easy to secure. But, it comes with a single problem that makes Bucky want to groan and walk right out the door.
It’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, but after that night on Sam’s couch he can’t help how achingly aware he is of Sam’s presence, of the warmth of his skin every time they touch. And Sam is just so fucking friendly, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder in greeting, poking him just to be annoying, tousling his hair whenever he thinks he can get away with it. It’s a thousand tiny, meaningless touches. It’s enough to drive Bucky insane, if he weren’t already.
Sam staggers through the door behind him, dropping the pack with a heavy thud. It’s then that Bucky sees the blood.
“Oh, fuck, Sam, did you get shot?” It’s a rhetorical question. In this line of work, of course he got shot. Drops his pack; he’s at Sam’s side in an instant, pressing fingers against the soft skin of Sam’s upper arm.
“Just clipped me,” Sam gasps, but it’s clear he’s in more pain than he’s letting on. “S’no big deal.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky growls. “Sit your ass down, let me clean it before it gets infected, Christ.” It’s a good thing he keeps medical supplies in his pack. Can’t always rely on extraction when things go down. The serum might give him the ability to brush off most injuries, but Sam’s all too human and has the same damn reckless streak as pre-serum Steve Rogers.
“I’m fine, seriously,” Sam says, but he’s certainly not fooling Bucky. Probably not even fooling himself, especially when he sways against sink.
“Torres, how long until the extraction?” Bucky asks into his comms.
“Uh.” There’s a flurry of typing. “Closest rendezvous is about ten hours away.”
“Fuck.” Bucky digs in his pack and draws out a small package. “Sam, sit down before you fall over.”
“He okay?” Torres asks in Bucky’s ear.
“I don’t know, the dumbass won’t let me look at him.”
Sam sits down, finally, but he’s glaring at Bucky. “Told you, ‘m fine.” His words come out a bit slurred, though, and he’s listing to one side in the chair.
“Just blood loss, I think.” Bucky’s only talking to Torres at this point, because Sam’s hero attitude is starting to piss him off. And he’s very carefully fueling the anger, and ignoring the undercurrent of oh fuck, he’s hurt, is he okay that’s running on a loop through his mind. Squashes down his thoughts, tries to get into the meditative space where focus is the only thing that matters. It works, for a second – and then Bucky pulls the top layer of Sam’s armor and sees the gash.
As far as gunshot wounds go, it’s not terrible. There’s not even much blood. Bucky cleans out the wound as best he can and covers it with antiseptic cream. Sam hisses at every little movement, every bit of dirt and debris that Bucky picks out of the wound.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Sam tries to glare, but he’s too weak for it to be effective.
“I have a lot of skills,” Bucky says softly. And then he takes his comms off, hurls them across the room so Torres can’t hear his whispered confession. “The Asset needed to know how to maintain peak performance on jobs.”
Sam goes still under his hands, and Bucky bites his lip.
“Fuck,” Sam breathes. “I – Bucky,” and then he takes a shuddering breath.
“Just… just let me patch you up,” Bucky says, and he’s never been more grateful for the fact that his hands don’t shake.
“Alright. Yeah.” And Sam stays very still, very patient, while Bucky finishes cleaning the wound.
He’s right, fortunately; it’s not a bad wound. It doesn’t even look like it’ll need stitches, just some rest and a good dressing. The bleeding’s basically stopped by the time he’s done cleaning, and he dresses it with quick, efficient motions. The wooziness was probably the shock of pain and then the adrenaline crashing once they were safe. Bucky still doesn’t want to take any chances, though, so he bandages Sam up with the same care he would’ve taken with Steve – had taken with Steve – once upon a time, when Bucky was his protector.
“Quit hovering,” Sam mumbles when Bucky’s almost done, but there’s no bite to it.
“Someone’s gotta look after that impressive mountain of stupid you call Captain America,” Buck says. And, dear lord, he forgot how fond he could sound when his old Brooklyn accent slips out. Doesn’t even mean for it to happen. It’s the easiest thing in the world to let his guard down around Sam, to let him see all the little pieces of Bucky that he’s been hiding deep down inside. And that’s such a terrifying thought that Bucky immediately resolves not to think about it anymore.
“I dunno, man.” Sam rolls his shoulder, grimacing against the tug of the bandage. “All I heard was you callin’ me impressive.”
Bucky snorts. Takes real effort for him to back up, to stop fussing at the edges of the bandage, to give Sam space. All he wants is to crowd closer, reassure himself that Sam is still alive and whole. “Go lie down, Wilson,” he says instead. “Take some damn pain meds. I’ll check the perimeter.”
Sam’s lying down when Bucky comes back, but he’s made room in the bed for Bucky. It’s ridiculous, of course it’s ridiculous (everything is ridiculous when it comes to Sam, his mind supplies unhelpfully), but Bucky wants. Wants in a way he forgot he was capable of. Wants to lie down next to him and be reassured by his gentle breathing. Wants to feel the heat of another person next to him, chasing away the nightmares.
Wants to be worthy of him, more than anything else.
Instead, he paces over to the window. The street outside is empty, deserted at this time of night. Bucky’s restless, heart a staccato beat of fear and longing and anguish.
“C’mon, Buck.”
Buck. Flashbacks of Steve, of another life, uncomplicated and easy and just him. Before he was two people and a thousand different sets of memories.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Bucky hedges.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam snorts. “I don’t bite.”
Even if I ask nicely? Bucky turns back toward the window to cover his sudden flush. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but it’s probably giving too much away. Sam is stretched out in the bed, eyes soft with fatigue and painkillers, and it makes Bucky’s heart pound traitorously fast. Can’t seem to keep his expression under control when Sam looks that earnest, that open.
“Buck.” A soft noise, a hand patting the bed.
Bucky’s resolve shatters like glass. He takes a shuddering breath, stripping off the outer layers of Kevlar and body armor as he moves toward the bed. This is a monumentally stupid idea. But Bucky’s mind is a ship out to sea and Sam is the lighthouse drawing him ever closer to the shore.
Sam’s already curled under the blanket, body angled towards Bucky, a too-soft smile on his face.
“Did you take the painkillers?” Bucky asks, clinging to the vestiges of his professionalism.
Sam snorts. “Did I take the painkillers.” A yawn cracks his jaw, cutting of the end of his flat, sarcastic sentence.
Bucky lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It feels like every molecule of his body is alive with the knowledge of how close Sam is, how easy it would be to reach over and touch him. As their friendship settles into an easy rhythm, Sam is more and more comfortable with the kind of casual touches that makes Bucky’s heart ache in a way he forgot it could. He wants it – wants to reach out and brush his fingers along Sam’s jaw, wants to squeeze his hand under the blankets, wants to press his lips to the gentle curve of Sam’s neck. Feels like he might break apart with the wanting of it all. Doesn’t even know how to put it into words, how to explain how easily Sam’s slipped under his armor until he can see all the soft pieces of Bucky that he’s keeping hidden from the world.
Takes ages – or feels like it, at least, because Bucky can’t pay attention to anything except the soft rise and fall of Sam’s breathing – for Sam to fall asleep. Bucky stares at the ceiling and just aches all over, until his eyelids are too heavy to keep open.
Bucky is looking in a mirror, and all he can see is the Winter Soldier. Streaks of rusty red frame his face, splatter across his cheeks. Sees a shadow move behind him – and when he turns around, all he can see, for miles and miles, is bodies. Bodies of everyone he’s killed, everyone he’s harmed, and his hands are stained such a deep red that he’s not sure it’ll ever come out. Can see RJ Nakajima in front, and Stark’s parents, and the bruised and battered faces of the Avengers.
Wakes up to a hand on his shoulder, a slight shifting of the mattress that rockets him back to full awareness in the space of a heartbeat. Alarm climbs up his throat when he realizes that the world is blurry – but then he sniffles, and realizes that he’s crying, and suddenly he can’t stop. Chokes back a sob and presses his hand to his mouth, trying to muffle the unbearable noise he’s making.
“Shh,” Sam murmurs, and tugs him closer under the blanket. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
Bucky doesn’t know how to say no, I’m not. Doesn’t even know if he can speak. Just lies there, shaking, unable to suppress the rising tide of misery and horror and fear. Rolls onto his side, facing away from Sam, and tries to stem the flood of tears.
Sam stays silent. Doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t try to calm him down. Just lies there, hand on Bucky’s hip, solid and comforting and there. And even though the yearning is an almost unbearable pressure, he starts to calm down. The choked sobbing fades into little hiccups and strangled gasps for air, and then fades into quiet sniffling. When Bucky finally feels like he has reasonable control of his voice and emotions, he rolls onto his back, dislodging Sam from the comfortable position he’d been in.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” he mumbles, for lack of something more coherent to say.
“S’okay.” Sam’s voice is muzzy and sleep-soft and achingly gentle. “’m here.”
“Sleep, Sam.” Bucky whispers. Can’t stand the thought that he’s once again inconveniencing the one person who wants to be his friend. Sam should be sleeping, especially since he’s injured, not dealing with Bucky’s fucked-up brain. No one should have to deal with that.
“You ‘kay?”
“Yeah, I am.” He’s not, but he can pretend. He can lie there and let Sam finally get the sleep he deserves for putting up with all of Bucky’s crap.
With what seems like a great deal of effort, Sam’s eyelids flutter open. Bucky can barely make it out in the mostly dark room. The only illumination is a sliver of moonlight that falls across the bed, painting Sam’s face with the most beautiful silvery glow. In the light, his eyes seem like molten pools of night, hiding unfathomable emotions. It’s enough to make Bucky’s voice catch in his throat.
“You gonna sleep, too?” Sam says around a yawn.
“Sure,” Bucky lies. Can’t stop staring. Isn’t sure what his face is doing, but it’s probably ridiculously obvious how much he wants – something. Sam. Wants the closeness they’ve been building, wants to touch him as casually as he touches Bucky. Wants to know what he looks like first thing in the morning and how he sleeps all curled up next to someone. Next to Bucky. Fuck, this whole one-bed situation is really the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
“Uh huh. C’mere, you.”
Bucky isn’t sure what he means, but then Sam’s hand wraps around his vibranium wrist and tugs him insistently closer, until Bucky’s curled on his side facing Sam.
“You’re gonna sleep,” Sam mumbles. Bucky thinks it’s supposed to be an order, but Sam’s mostly asleep and it’s not very effective.
“Right,” Bucky says, because words are almost entirely beyond him right now. He’s too aware of the warm line of Sam’s body in front of him, of the way their knees are pressed together and Sam’s head is curled toward him. Wants to reach out and pulls Sam closer. Wants to run away from the storm of emotions in his chest. Things were so much easier when he was comfortably numb. Why did Sam Wilson, of all people, make his emotions thaw out so effectively?
“Mean it. ‘m here.” Sam’s voice is fading quickly, eyelids struggling to stay open.
Bucky sighs. Can already tell how this is going to go. Sam’s going to force himself to stay awake just to order Bucky around and make sure he actually sleeps. It would be really, really annoying if it weren’t actually kind of sweet and protective. Fuck, Bucky is in so much trouble if he actually finds this asshole’s bossiness endearing. But he can’t help it. Sam’s wormed his way through all the cracks in Bucky’s armor, cracks he didn’t even know existed, and now he’s all tangled up in the softness that Bucky hadn’t known existed in him. And Bucky… Bucky really, really doesn’t mind as much as he thinks he should. Feels nice, even, to have someone know him and accept all the less-than-pretty parts of his mind.
“Fine, I’ll sleep.” Tries to make it sound annoyed, but he’s pretty sure it comes out softer than he intends.
Sam makes a contented noise in the back of his throat. His head nods forward all at once, like he was waiting for Bucky’s answer before falling asleep. Ends up half curled into Bucky’s side, head pillowed on Bucky’s shoulder. There’s warmth everywhere they’re touching, and ordinarily it would make Bucky feel like he wants to crawl out of his skin with the closeness of it all. Instead, it just feels like safety and peace. Feels so comfortable. Bucky wishes he could get used to this. Wishes he could fall asleep like this every night, with Sam a warm presence beside him. It’s such an effective method of chasing away the nightmares. But, more than that, Sam is starting to mean everything to him.
It’s far, far too easy for him to close his eyes. He’s so comfortable, like this. Curls a little closer to Sam and falls asleep with the comforting weight of Sam beside him, and sleeps better than he has in months.
[iv]
“Man, it’s about time you pay back my hospitality.”
Sam is aggravatingly beautiful in a tight cotton t-shirt and old, ripped jeans. He paces around Bucky’s apartment, taking in the sparse decorations and sterile walls. It’s not the first time he’s been over, certainly not – they spend as much time in Bucky’s apartment as they do Sam’s, as they do Sarah’s house in Louisiana, but this is the first time Sam is spending the night. Has a press conference in the morning, some shit to do with Captain America and the GRC that Bucky can’t imagine will be anything other than a nightmare. With all the bigwigs in the city for the conference, Bucky had been feeling magnanimous enough to spare Sam the cost of a hotel room, even if it’s a terrible idea.
And it is a terrible idea. Sam is heartbreakingly beautiful, and so close that Bucky can touch him if he wants, and God he wants. But they’re friends, good friends, and Bucky’s getting used to the ever-present hum of longing under his skin, can push it down and ignore it. This friendship is a lifeline, and he’s not throwing it away just because he can’t keep his own damn emotions under control.
“Trust me, you’ll regret saying that in the morning,” Bucky deadpans. The couch isn’t that bad, all things considered, but it’s not exactly as comfortable as a bed. Bucky knows that firsthand. Sleeps on the couch more often than not, these days, because he’s trying to break himself of the habit of sleeping on the floor. Beds are still too soft, too nice for him. The couch is at least a halfway point, a stepping stone to being a normal human being.
“They would’ve put me up in a hotel,” Sam says, tracing a finger along the newest addition to Bucky’s shelf. It’s a framed photo of him, Sam, and Torres right before going out on their last mission a few weeks back. Torres had texted it to him – and had been way too excited about getting Bucky’s phone number, Christ. “But this is nicer.”
Bucky’s traitorous heart lurches, and he silently tells it to be quiet. He’s just doing Sam a favor. Friends do that, right? They let each other crash on couches and not have to deal with people who couldn’t give a shit whether refugees lived or died. It doesn’t mean anything.
Right?
Sam gives him shit about the number of takeout menus Bucky’s accumulated, despite the fact that it makes him a hypocrite, and then they settle in to watch shitty television until their dinner arrives. It’s all horribly domestic, and Bucky is so fucking aware of the distance between them. Can’t focus on the TV, even if he wanted to, because Sam is right there. Could reach over and stroke his face, press their lips –
No. Bucky is being ridiculous. Even if Sam’s interested, there’s a million reasons why it’s a terrible idea. So he sits and lets his mind wander, daydreaming about all the ways he could touch Sam right there on the couch. Feels like it’s dangerous to imagine, to give in even a little bit to the wanting, but it’s hard to get the images out of his head when Sam is right there, so close that Bucky can reach out and just touch him if he –
“Alright, man, I gotta turn in.”
Sam’s voice breaks him out of his reverie, of course. Has a kind of pinched look on his face that speaks to just how much he’s not looking forward to the conference tomorrow.
“It’ll go fine,” Bucky says, a half-assed attempt at reassurance. Never knows what to say, or how to help, but still wants to try. Still needs to try, after everything Sam’s done for him over the last few months. “You know your shit, Sam, and you’re going to put those GRC asshole in their place.”
Sam flashes a small smile. It’s still uncertain but his shoulders relax almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah. Thanks, man. I gotta get up early, though, I don’t mean to kick you out of your living room.”
“No worries. I wasn’t watching this crap anyways,” he adds with a wave of a hand towards the awful reality TV program Sam had insisted on watching. “C’mon, why do you watch this garbage?”
“For the entertainment, seriously, how funny is this shit?” Sam throws back his head and laughs and Bucky’s momentarily distracted by the graceful line of Sam’s throat, by the thought of how it would feel to press his lips –
Snaps himself out of it. Acts the good host, gathering up some blankets and a spare pillow from his rarely used linen closet, and helps Sam make the couch into a bed. There are all these maddeningly casual little touches – Sam helping Bucky smoother out the blanket, fingers lingering longer than strictly necessary when passing off the pillow, a clap on his shoulder when the job is done – and it’s all Bucky can do not to swallow his tongue.
Debates, standing in his bedroom door, whether he’s going to try to sleep in his bed or not. Most nights Bucky ends up on the couch. The bed is too… something. Too soft. Too unfamiliar. Or maybe he’s too undeserving of nice things. But the couch isn’t an option, so Bucky is strongly tempted to curl up on the floor and stare at the wall until he succumbs to sleep.
He doesn’t. Mostly because he knows Sam will never shut up about it if he happens to see where Bucky falls asleep. And given Bucky’s penchant for nightmares, he figures there’s a higher than average likelihood that Sam will see him in the middle of the night. Doesn’t know why he cares about what Sam thinks, even as his heart clenches and stomach lurches and pulse picks up at the thought of him.
Besides, he can’t sleep, anyways. Needs to stay awake. Needs to not wake Sam up in the middle of the night, not when he has to get up early in the morning and spend the day dealing with shitty people. The literal least Bucky can do is make sure that Sam isn’t woken up in the middle of the night by the mess that is Bucky’s brain.
He tries to stay awake, he really does. He sits up in bed, still in his jeans, staring at the wall. Tries to go to that place of patience in his mind, where he can just wait for hours on end. Mission-ready, his brain supplies. And maybe it’s a leftover Hydra thing, or maybe it’s just, like, Zen focus, but it usually helps him. Except, there’s no mission. There’s no reason for him to be waiting. And Sam is in the next room, snoring softly, but it’s still loud enough for Bucky’s enhanced hearing to pick up. It’s a familiar sound, now, one that makes Bucky’s brain think of sleep and how comfortable it is to be around Sam.
Soon enough, his eyes are watering with the strain of keeping them open, and his blinks are growing slower and longer. Between one blink and the next, the room reorients itself, and he realizes that he’s slumped over onto his side. But then sleep is cresting over him in a wave, and he forgets to be concerned about it.
Daybreak.
…
Nine.
…
There is a hand on the Asset’s shoulder, but his eyes are not yet open. He is not yet ready.
Homecoming.
“Barnes.”
One.
“Bucky, c’mon. Wake up.”
Freight car.
The Asset’s eyes open. “Ready to comply.”
Something inside him recoils at the familiar words, at the familiar language on his tongue. There’s a face above his, blurry through unshed tears, and he tries to focus on it. Tries to breathe through the fear choking his lungs. But it’s all happening to someone else, someone not him, but still him at the same time.
“I don’t – I don’t want to,” he gasps. Not sure if it’s Russian or English or one of the other dozens of languages they shoved into his brain over the years. “Please,” he says, and his voice comes out a ragged gasp.
“What’s your name?” A voice breaks through the haze.
The Asset, comes the instinctive response, and his mind recoils again. No, he’s – he’s – it’s so hard to think with all this fog, with his vision still blurry, with the way his heart can’t stop thundering in his chest. “I-I’m – I don’t…” Whimpers. Can feels his body shaking. What is his name? How can he have forgotten such a vital piece of himself? “I-It’s… I-I’m… Bucky?” It comes out as a question, and it makes the tears finally spill over and down his cheeks.
“Yes, you are. You’re Bucky Barnes.”
It’s like the words pierce through the fog around his mind. “Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and sits up. Nearly collides into Sam, who’s hovering over him with that damned worried eyebrow crease again. His mouth tastes of metal and bile, and he shoves down the urge to retch.
“Fuck, are you okay?” San’s voice loses its calm reassurance and edges into panic. The uncertainty in it makes Bucky’s heart clench. This is exactly what he was supposed to avoid, making Sam deal with his crap in the middle of the night again.
Sam’s hand is outstretched towards Bucky’s shoulder, hovering in the air like he’s not sure if it’s a good idea or not. Bucky’s not sure, either. Feels like he might shake apart at the seams if Sam touches him. But that doesn’t stop the rush of disappointment when Sam’s hand drops back down to his own lap.
“Yeah,” he gasps. “Just… just a nightmare. I’m not – I wasn’t – I…”
“I know.” Sam exhales loudly. “I know.”
Bucky just breathes through the terror still holding him hostage. For a second, he’d thought – but no, Ayo got all of it out of his head, it was just a dream, it wasn’t –
And then Sam’s hand comes down on his shoulder, warm and soothing and comforting, and Bucky’s train of thought derails.
“Want some tea?” And it’s ridiculous that Sam knows his way around Bucky’s kitchen well enough to ask that.
“I – yeah, sure.” Swallows. Takes another ragged breath.
Sam squeezes his shoulder once and vanishes through the open doorway. Bucky sits there for a long moment, silently clenching and unclenching his vibranium fist. He’s never going to escape it completely, is he? All the ghosts and whispered Russian words that haunt him, even now that he’s free. Maybe he doesn’t turn into a mindless killing machine when someone says the right words, but he’s still trained to respond in certain ways. Still trained to hear those words and stop thinking. Ayo might have excised his inability to control himself, but the damage is done.
All the Wakandan technology and therapy in the world can’t get this shit out of his head. He’s going to spend the rest of his life dealing with it and trying to pretend he can be a real person again. It’s so exhausting, and he wishes, so strongly sometimes, for a different path. The other Howling Commandos got to have long lives and raise children and live in a world that believed it defeated the Nazis and Hydra. And even if Bucky was fated to die in the war, wouldn’t it have been better for the world – for him – if he’d died falling off that mountain?
They’re not happy thoughts. They’re not thoughts he hasn’t had a few dozen times before. He’s never expressed them before, to anyone. Knows himself well enough to know that he’s going to keep trying, no matter what. Whatever else he might’ve been that’s lost to history, Bucky Barnes was not a quitter.
And more than that, Bucky keeps finding more and more reasons to like the future. To want to be alive in the twenty-first century. There’s so much music and art and so many books to read. The internet is a bit of a mixed bag of crazy, but he’s likes how accessible everything is getting and how many different foods he’s been able to try.
And maybe it’s not all so bad with Sam by his side.
It’s that thought, more than anything else, that propels him into action. Can’t sit there feeling sorry for himself all night. Shuffles out of the bedroom in a daze, and stares at himself in the mirror. It’s been a long time since Bucky cared about his appearance, but he looks rough. Dark circles bloom like bruises under his eyes. He hunches over the sink and spits out blood; there’s a cut on his tongue from where he bit it, but it’s already healing around the edges. Bucky rinses out his mouth as best as he can. There’s no reason to alarm Sam any more than he already has.
“Buck?”
He’s normally so attuned to Sam’s movements, but his sudden appearance in the doorway makes Bucky jump and put a hand over his heart.
“Jesus,” he rasps, voice rough like he’s been yelling.
“I also answer to Sam.” It’s a weak joke, but Bucky snorts. Accepts the warm cup of tea – it’s chamomile, and warms something deep inside Bucky to know that Sam remembers what tea he likes after a nightmare – and wraps his hands around it, breathing in the cozy scent. He lets Sam lead him into the living room and settles on the couch.
It’s not the first time they’ve sat up late on a couch, watching movies and documentaries until Bucky’s ghosts recede enough to let him sleep a little more. It is the first time they’ve sat this close, Sam’s thigh a warm line against Bucky’s, tucked next to each other under an afghan that Sam bought him as a Christmas present.
They’re no closer than he ever got with Steve, or with any of the few close friends he’s had over the years, but Bucky’s skin feels like it’s on fire. Sam is so warm everywhere, a personal space heater, and Bucky doesn’t normally like being that warm, but he also can’t imagine moving. The television can’t hold any of his attention, so focused is he on breathing calmly and trying not to shift any closer. That familiar ache in his heart starts up again, with Sam this close, and Bucky knows this isn’t going to help any. But. But Sam is there, and Bucky woke up with Russian on his tongue and in his head, and he can’t help the last few tears that trickle down his cheeks.
Sam’s too soft, too gentle. Too easy to talk to, all non-judgmental and understanding. Easier, even, than Steve had been – because there’s no baggage, no expectations of Bucky-from-before. Sam met the Winter Soldier, was nearly murdered by the Winter Soldier on several memorable occasions, and now wakes Bucky up from nightmares. He’s seen the worst of Bucky’s mental state, and now watches his slow progress with soft smiles and gentle words of encouragement.
Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for Bucky to burrow down deeper into the afghan, eyes fluttering against the light of the TV, and say things that make him feel horribly vulnerable. And Sam hasn’t said anything, hasn’t asked, but this is where it always ends up, and Bucky knows that Sam is waiting as patiently as always. Waiting for Bucky to sort out enough shit in his head to let the words flow, to confess the things that make him vulnerable while he’s already feeling so vulnerable.
“I’m afraid,” Bucky whispers. Can feel Sam go perfectly still at his side, attention focused on Bucky without taking his eyes off the TV. “That I’ll never… be okay.”
“You are okay,” Sam says. He’s so fucking gentle it hurts. “This is just… this is living, Bucky. Everyone has things they feel guilty about, things they blame themselves for.”
“Not like this,” Bucky mumbles.
“I,” Sam sighs. Turns toward Bucky, touches his cheek with the kind of familiar intimacy that Bucky craves with every fiber of his being. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound dismissive. What I mean is that there’s no set value of okay that we’re all trying to reach. Everyone is going through their own stuff. Yeah, yours is horrible. Yours is the kind of fucked up that most people wouldn’t be able to handle. But you’re here. You’re alive. You’re going through the motions, even if it doesn’t all feel real yet. That means something, Bucky.”
“What’s yours?” Bucky asks, and then mentally kicks himself.
Sam pauses, thinks. Settles back down under the afghan, staring off into the distance. Bucky doesn’t want him to retreat, but he knows it’s easier to say horribly vulnerable things if you don’t have to make eye contact.
“Riley,” Sam says, voice just above a whisper. “Steve never told you about him?”
Bucky shakes his head.
“My wingman, back in pararescue. We made it through boot camp, training, everything together. And all we ever wanted to do was fly. EXO-7 was a dream come true, and we thought – hey, we’re going to get to do some really amazing shit like this. All of our training, leading us right down this path. We were the only two to make it through to the end, to get the wings. And then on our very first mission, an RPG blew him out of the sky.” Sam tilts his head back, eyes closing. “I… I couldn’t catch him. Tried so hard. But I couldn’t do anything but watch.”
“You loved him.”
“That obvious, huh?” Sam’s smile is a wry, sad thing. “Yeah. My first everything.”
“Do you still dream about it?”
Sam nods. “And Rhodes. Leipzig.”
Bucky knows that story, at least. It’s hard to miss the prosthetics that help Rhodes walk, or the way Sam still has trouble looking at him for too long.
“Like I said,” Sam continues. Puts his hand on Bucky’s vibranium one and squeezes. “Everyone’s going through it. Plenty of soldiers with PTSD out there waking in the night and feeling like they’re never going to claw their way back. Just. You’re not alone, is all I’m saying.”
And they does make him feel better, Sam’s words. The idea that even if his particular experiences might be singular – or at least extremely rare – that there are still other people like him, who lived through wars and detainment and torture. People who sill struggle to get up in the morning and pretend that everything is okay.
They go back to the documentary after that, something Sam picked at random about the strange fish that live at the bottom of the ocean. It’s a comfortable background noise, and the chamomile tea is making Bucky feel so warm. Feels more settled, after talking to Sam, than he has in ages. Feels, for once, like maybe it’s really okay that he isn’t okay. Like Sam’s words lifted some of the weight off his shoulders.
Bucky can’t stop his eyes from sliding closed. Shakes himself awake a few times, and each time it’s harder and harder to return himself to wakefulness.
“Buck.” Sam huffs out a little laugh when Bucky’s head lolls to the side, landing on Sam’s shoulder before he jerks upright. “Sleep, man, it’s okay. I’m right here.”
Fuck, does Sam even know what he’s doing for Bucky? I’m right here, he says after every nightmare. Says when Bucky’s terrified to go back to sleep, but unable to resist the demands of his body. Says when Bucky’s too vulnerable not to let that permission drag him back down into unconsciousness.
It’s an irresistible invitation, especially once his eyes close and refuse to reopen. Bucky’s head sinks down against Sam’s shoulder, and he finally gives in to the exhaustion sweeping across his body.
When he wakes, it’s slowly, languidly. Sam is a warm line against him, and Bucky wants nothing more than to just drift right back off to sleep.
“Buck. I gotta get up.”
Sam’s voice is so soft, but so loud to Bucky’s enhanced hearing. Groans and pulls the blanket up over his head.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbles.
Sam huffs a little laugh. “You can go back to sleep, man, but I gotta get ready for the conference.”
Oh. Right.
Bucky blinks himself back into full awareness, head fully of that dreamy fogginess that comes after a good night’s sleep. Frowns a little when he notices – did Sam carry him to bed? It’s the only explanation for how he’s stretched out in his too-comfortable bed, tucked under the blankets. And that thought makes the longing in Bucky’s heart redouble its efforts, nearly knocking him over with the force of it. Fuck, he just – he wants this, so much, this domesticity and comfort and Sam. Might break apart with the wanting of it all.
Clears his throat. Looks up at Sam, who’s already climbing out of bed – the bed where he slept next to you all night even though he didn’t have to – and tries to arrange his face into something resembling normal.
“You,” clears his throat again. “You want some backup, today?”
And Sam pauses. Looks at him for a long minute. Bucky wishes he could read Sam’s mind. And it’s not that he particularly wants to go to this stupid conference on GRC repatriation and reparations, but – it’s Sam. He’s Sam’s backup. It’s his job to watch Sam’s six. Sure, they probably won’t get shot at today, but that doesn’t mean Bucky shouldn’t be there.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and his whole face breaks into a smile so beautiful it takes Bucky’s breath away. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
Fuck, Bucky is so screwed. Because all he can think about in that moment is kissing Sam, the way Sam’s lips would feel against his. Wonders if Sam would sigh into the kiss, would kiss him back, would let Bucky touch him so softly and gently, the way he touches Bucky sometimes. Knows Sam would say that Bucky doesn’t owe him anything, but Bucky wants to repay him in gentleness and protectiveness and softness. Sam deserves everything.
What the fuck is he supposed to do with all these feelings?
[v]
It’s almost torture, how close they’ve grown since Bucky and Sam’s late night confessions.
Sam invites him down to Louisiana for a cookout, unprompted, like hanging out is just something they do. And, well, it kind of is. Sam’s spent a few more nights on Bucky’s couch, and vice versa, and they don’t always meet up just for missions anymore. It started with that MoMA exhibit months ago. Now they’re trading buying meals after missions, and Sam’s dragging him one by one to all the Smithsonian museums – and keeping up a running commentary on how Bucky belongs in one of them – and they’ve even, on one memorable occasion, gone to the movies and bickered over sharing the giant tub of popcorn. It’s all very… comfortable. And maddening. And Bucky might be going crazy with how much he wants Sam, but he’s still managing to act somewhat normal around the guy.
Sarah, though, clearly knows something is up with the way she looks between the two of them all afternoon. Bucky can’t help the way he orbits around Sam; his smiles and laughter and the little crinkle in the corners of his eyes when he talks to his nephews, so filled to bursting with happiness, are a kind of gravity all on their own, one which Bucky is helpless to resist.
“When are you gonna finally make a move on my brother?”
Sarah corners him in the kitchen as he’s bringing in dishes.
“I…” Bucky takes a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he says, lamely. Doesn’t even try to lie to Sarah. Knows better than to make the attempt. Both Sam and Sarah have some kind of ridiculous sense for lies, particularly Bucky’s, and he knows he can’t get away with it.
Sarah sighs. “Boy, the way you look at him, I’m surprised he hasn’t figured it out yet.” Shakes her head. “Men are stupid.”
Bucky is certainly not dumb enough to disagree with her. Just kind of nods, and escapes the kitchen as soon as it’s polite.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. In fact, it’s all he can think about whenever he’s with Sam, these days. But Sam has his own shit to deal with, and Bucky doesn’t need to complicate his life any more than he already has. Sam deserves better than an ex-assassin with a metric fuckton of PTSD and enough baggage to fill an entire airport.
But, still, it’s nice. Being a part of Sam’s orbit, that is. It’s so easy, how quickly Sarah and the boys welcome him into the family. Cass and AJ are forever fascinated by his vibranium arm and what it can do, and he delights them with minor feats of strength. Lets them hang off the arm and carries them around dangling from it, delighting in the way they shriek with laughter and clamor for his attention. Reminds him, bittersweet, of the little sister he never got to watch grow up.
Even the residents of Delacroix welcome him with open arms. It’s an easygoing community, it seems, and everyone knows Sam and Sarah by name, and delights in telling Bucky all about what terrible troublemakers they were as children.
And that’s how Bucky ends up in quiet conversation with a man who looks as old as Bucky feels, some days.
“Where’d you serve?” says the man, eyes narrowed a bit. His past isn’t a secret here; there’s no hiding the fact that he’s the Winter Soldier. Was the Winter Soldier.
Bucky swallows. “I – Italy. 107th. Got captured in Azzano.” Got rescued by Captain America. Fell off a train trying to save his dumbass. Leaves the rest of it unspoken.
“761st tank battalion. Served under Patton himself.” The man lifts his chin, pride lacing his words. Then he rolls up his sleeve, shows Bucky the crisscrossing scars on his arm. “Gestapo caught me in France. Spent a few days in their lovely company.” Snorts, and rolls his sleeves back down. “The Italians treat you any better?”
Bucky’s mouth is dry. “I – no, not really.”
“Didn’t think so.” The man reaches out, gently squeezes Bucky’s arm. “You ever feel like trading war stories, Sarah knows where to find me.” And then he tips his hat – a WWII veteran hat – to Bucky, and turns back to keep chatting with the young woman on his right.
It almost feels like he’s been flayed open. Can’t breathe, all of a sudden, and makes a hasty retreat back into the house before any more people can try to engage him in conversation. The dishes are stacked in a neat pile on the counter, but Sarah is nowhere to be seen, and Bucky is immensely grateful for the opportunity to be alone. Presses shaking hands down on the edge of the sink and tries to take a few deep breaths. Fails miserably, and ends up standing there, shaking, staring out the window at the water in the distance.
“Bucky?”
Yelps, and nearly jumps out of his skin. He must be distracted, because no one should ever be able to sneak up on him. But there’s Sarah behind him, a clean dishrag draped over her shoulder, staring at him with that same damn crease between her eyebrows as her brother.
“Sarah,” he gasps.
“You okay, Bucky?”
“Yeah,” he tries to say, but it comes out too rough. He winces.
“Did someone say something stupid?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Sarah takes a step closer to him, slowly. “Can you take a deep breath?”
Bucky tries, he really does, but it feels like he can’t get enough air. “I – no.”
“That’s okay. Try again for me.”
It’s a bit easier the second time. And easier again the third time. And on and on, for several minutes, as Sarah gently coaxes him through the process of breathing deeply. By the end of it, Bucky’s pulse is almost back to normal, and he can feel the color returning to his cheeks.
“Good,” Sarah murmurs, and steps forward until she can put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Squeezes gently, and smiles at him in a way that reminds him too much of Sam.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. Can’t meet her eyes. Shame creeps up his neck, reddening his skin.
“Bucky, look at me.”
And, well, Bucky can’t say no to that. Looks up, slowly, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. Pity would sink like a rock in his stomach. Fear would spoil the entire afternoon. And disgust would break him wide open until shame was the only thing left.
It isn’t anything like that, though. Her gaze is too understanding. And Bucky suddenly remembers Sam’s whispered confession about Riley, about Rhodes, and wonders just how much experience Sarah has with calming someone down from a panic attack.
“It’s okay. I promise.” Sarah touches her cheek. Brushes her thumb over the stubble he’s been too lazy to trim down. It’s a very maternal gesture. Her smile is fond, and Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about it. “It’s not my first rodeo with PTSD.”
“Riley,” Bucky says.
“Yeah.” Sarah sighs. “He was… not in a good place when he came home, right after it happened. And believe me, that’s an understatement. Riley meant so much to him. He used to wake up screaming in the middle of the night, sure that Riley was dying all over again in front of him.” She shudders. “All the counseling in the world couldn’t make the nightmares go away. Sam was a wreck until he found a new reason to get out of bed in the morning. It was… a long journey, though, and not an easy one.”
Bucky wants to – doesn’t know how to – settles for bringing his human hand up and resting it on her shoulder, squeezing it like she’d squeezed his. It makes her smile, at least, and something loosens in his chest.
He’s not sure what it is about the Wilson siblings that make them so willing to give second chances to the worst people in the world, but he’s intensely grateful for it. Grateful beyond words, sure that he can never adequately explain to Sarah exactly what her friendship and trust has doing – is doing – for his mental state. Fuck, she’s even let him supervise the boys alone, while she and Sam went out errands. He loves this little family with every fiber of his being, wants to show them, wants to somehow give them back even a sliver of what they’ve given him.
“How about I wash and you dry?” Bucky says instead, because the right words are so hard to find, even still.
Sarah’s answering smile is a beacon in the night. Bucky washes, Sarah dries, and they keep up a steady stream of chatter about Sam’s home life, embarrassing teenaged stories, and complaining about Sam’s efforts to modernize Bucky’s taste in music. When Sam finds them in the kitchen, still chatting at the table long after the dishes are done, his smile goes soft and fond in a way that makes Bucky’s heart ache, and he thinks, yeah, this is home.
He stands in a cage and waits to be taken away, knows in that indescribably dream logic that he’s next, they’re coming for him. Commandos all around him with blank faces, memories lost to time. There are needles in his arms, taking blood and giving back something that makes him feel like he’s been filled with fire, like he’s burning from the inside out. Blurry faces pass above him, speaking in a language he doesn’t understand, but he knows they want something from him. That they’re waiting for him. Watching him change in ways he still can’t explain.
Everyone is dying, everyone is being shot at, there are soldiers all around, and he can’t find Steve. Feels every shot of his gun, watches every enemy soldier fall, and wonders why he ever signed up for this in the first place. He’d been so proud, wanted it so badly – and all for what? Glory and honor are such childish dreams, and he hasn’t been that innocent in a long time.
There are dead bodies all around him, and he can’t tell how many are from him. How many lives he ended by himself, his hands, his gun, his orders. How many families will mourn the loss of their brothers, fathers, sons, uncles, nephews? It doesn’t matter that they’re evil, doesn’t matter that he’s trying to do good, all that matters is death, death, death. His hands are stained with blood and he can never wash it out.
Steve’s face is awash in horror and fear, one hand reaching out to grab at his’s – but he’s not fast enough, not nearly fast enough even with all the serum in the world, and he falls. Hurtles through the air, frozen wind clawing at his face and his uniform until he lands in a crumpled heap, one arm bloodied and bent at an unnatural angle.
Bucky bolts up with a shout, stomach roiling with the fall, even though he’s still on the couch. He flails, hands connecting with something solid. A muffled oomph, and then his wrists are captured in gentle hands, bringing him back down to reality.
“Buck,” Sam murmurs, and doesn’t hesitate to pull him into a hug. Bucky shakes in his arms, trembling with the effort of not crying.
It’s funny, all of a sudden. Bucky’s laughing, and it’s edged with hysteria, but he can’t help it, it’s so fucking ridiculous. It’s the first nightmare he’s ever had about being James Buchanan Barnes, about the man who existed before the Winter Soldier, and it’s not fucking funny, but it is.
“Fuck,” he wheezes, and presses his face against Sam’s shoulder. “Guess I have enough nightmare fuel even from before.”
Sam’s grip tightens, just briefly. “From the war?”
“Yeah.” Bucky sits up, pulls away from Sam’s embrace. Makes him ache, makes him want, but he – he needs space, needs to collect his thoughts if he’s going to be okay again. “You know. Wasn’t all fun and games, being a soldier.”
“I know,” Sam says, so quiet, so meaningful. “You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky does. Doesn’t. Runs a hand through his hair – it’s getting shaggy again – and stares off into the distance. Sarah’s living room is dark, but his eyesight is good enough to make out the vague shapes of the furniture, to see the lines of Sam’s body where he’s sitting on the couch. Maybe he can talk about it, if he doesn’t have to see Sam’s face. Reality is almost unreal, sitting there in the dark, and it’s maybe a little easier to bare his soul.
“Did Steve ever tell you how it happened?”
“Yeah.” But Sam doesn’t say anything else. Just lets Bucky collect his thoughts and dive into the story at his own pace.
“I could have gone home,” Bucky says, because it’s a thought he’s had in the back of his mind since the last time he came off the ice. “I got captured in Azzano, subjected to Hydra experiments and Zola’s special attention.” Sarcasm drips off his words. “But I was good as long as I was moving, y’know? I didn’t want to go home and have to think about what they did to me. And it was Steve asking, you know how hard it is to say no to his stupid fucking earnest face?”
Sam snorts, and it’s not funny, considering the things Steve has dragged them through, but it is.
“Asshole,” Sam mutters. “Never thinking about the consequences of his own damn actions.”
Then it’s Bucky’s turn to snort, because Sam is a hypocrite. He’s silent for several long moments before he can finally bring himself to finish the story. “So, I follow him around Europe and kill some Nazis. And it’s so much blood. We were trying to save the world, one base at a time, but all I could think about was how much blood I had on my hands.” Shudders. “And then we get word that Zola’s trying to escape on a train. Except it was a trap of course it was a fucking trap.” Once, he’d been angry about it. About walking into an ambush and destroying everything he held dear, including his own mind. But it dulls with time, growing fainter the longer Bucky spends in the 21st century. He knows Steve would go back, try something else, be faster, if only they could turn back time, but they can’t. Just has to live with it now, with the guilt and pain and regret. “Blew a hole in the side of the train. I nearly fell, then, but I clung to this side. Steve tried to grab me, he really fucking tried, but the bar I was holding onto was unstable. It broke, and I fell.”
Huffs out a breath. Leans closer to Sam on the couch, shoulder to shoulder. Tries to chase away the chill of memories better forgotten with the warmth of Sam’s presence. “I killed a lot of people before then.”
“Me too.”
It’s a quiet confession, the litany of soldiers everywhere who did what they had to do and lived to see the world differently, lived to think back on all the things they did in combat. Bucky knows that they did what was necessary – that Nazi Germany and Hitler and Schmidt wouldn’t have ever stopped, unless someone stopped them – but Bucky gave up all these little pieces of himself, gave up his ability to feel peace, and maybe he’s allowed to feel a bit bitter about it.
“Yeah,” Bucky says. It feels inadequate, but he doesn’t know how to keep going, suddenly. He’s so tired, so exhausted by the nightmares. Tired of trying to keep himself away from Sam, from hiding his longing, from not touching except under the cover of darkness and vulnerability. So he presses closer, lets his head come to rest on Sam’s shoulder, because Sam is soft and gentle and comfortable and Bucky wants – needs – comfort. Wants to let him be the safe place Bucky comes to rest after a nightmare. After the flashbacks and dissociation and fucking PTSD triggers have wrung out all his energy.
They sit like that for some time, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. Bucky’s drifting, just a little, mind shying away from all the shit he keeps bottled up. So tired; wants to close his eyes and sleep, wants to have a single peaceful night so he can finally feel like he’s catching up on sleep.
“C’mon, Buck,” Sam murmurs. “Come to bed.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, because all of his defenses have been stripped away. Lets Sam tug him up off the couch, lead him hand in hand upstairs to Sam’s bedroom. Sits down on the bed and can’t breathe with the ache in his heart, the force of wanting. Still, he lets Sam tug him down, lets Sam wrap his arms around Bucky’s middle. Can’t help but relax into that embrace.
Feels himself fall even deeper into Sam’s orbit. Can’t help it. Sam is so good, everything Bucky wishes he could be, and he’s there for Bucky in all his most vulnerable moments. Never makes fun of him, then. Never tries to use it against him, never even reminds him of it in the daylight. Just gives him shit about the way he takes his coffee, about listening to Vera Lynn still, about the way he tries to teach Torres to throw knives. Hell, he’s talked Bucky through a few panic attacks in the daylight, all from shit that Bucky feels like he should already have control over, and never acts like Bucky’s fucked-up brain is ruining his day.
And even in the darkness, Sam’s just – he takes all of Bucky’s shit, and listens to him talk about the awful things in his head, and never judges him for it. Never tells him he’s being ridiculous. Never tries to be a therapist to him, the way he knows Sam’s trained. Just listens in a way that makes Bucky want to talk more, and tells him it’s okay, and gives him a safe place to sleep when it’s all over.
God, no wonder he can’t get rid of the longing.
“I’m right here,” Sam murmurs once they’re settled. Once Bucky is lying next to him, settled under the blankets, with Sam’s arms wrapped around him.
I’m right here. It’s what Sam always says. It’s the thing that breaks through all of his barriers, makes him feel so fucking safe, until he can’t help but fall asleep. Sam’s here, and he’s safe, and he can sleep again. It’s as simple as that, after all this time.
Lying in Sam’s bed, wrapped in Sam’s arms, in Sam’s childhood home, comfort and peace and serenity wrap his mind up in a fog of safety until Bucky drifts back off to sleep.
[+i]
Bucky probably shouldn’t be surprised when it’s finally Sam’s turn, but that doesn’t stop it from being unexpected.
Knows – God, of course he knows – that Sam has his own shit to deal with. But Sam always keeps it under better wraps than Bucky, always acts like shit doesn’t bother him. Bucky’s the one dealing with nightmares. But Sam’s the one who was held prisoner and tortured by his own government. Sam’s the one who spent years on the run, hiding from his own government, unable to tell the people he loved that he was okay. Sam’s the one who gave up everything he cared about, just to save Bucky’s dumb ass.
Sam whimpers, and Bucky props himself up on one elbow. There’s just enough light coming through the window for him to make out the silhouette of Sam’s body, all rigid lines. He’s curled in on himself, body taut, trembling minutely. It’s disconcerting. Bucky’s the damaged one, Bucky’s the one who can’t make it through the night, Bucky –
Another whimper, and Bucky slides forward without thinking. Presses up against Sam’s back, slides one hand along the curve of Sam’s hip. Feels how tense he is. Close to breaking under Bucky’s fingertips.
“Sam,” Bucky murmurs. “Sam, c’mon, wake up.”
There’s a ragged breath. Sam’s not waking up. Whatever the dream is, it must be bad. Bucky squeezes his hip, tugs him closer, until Sam’s rolled back and half propped up on Bucky’s chest.
“No,” Sam mumbles. His eyes dart around under closed eyelids. “No, Riley, no.” The anguish in his voice is hard to listen to, and Bucky aches with it.
“Sam, it’s okay. I’m right here,” Bucky whispers. Tries to be comforting. It’s awkward; he’s not used to it. Once upon a time he could comfort all of Steve’s pains away. He even used to be nurturing, for fuck’s sake. Vague memories of a little sister, of tending to scrapes and bruises and singing her to sleep. Feels like it all disappeared with the brainwashing and resetting.
It’s all at once that Sam wakes. Nearly tumbles out of bed with the force of it, bolting upright in a panic. Breath coming too fast, chest heaving under what Bucky can only imagine is an immense weight of panic and terror.
“Rhodes, fuck,” Sam whispers, and takes a ragged breath. “Fuck, I was just – just up –”
“Up there to watch,” Bucky finishes, because he knows – God, he knows how this story ends, how Riley’s story ends. How Rhodes’ story ends. Now it’s how Natasha’s story ends. And now Steve is gone, and Stark, and – seems like the number of people they love keeps dwindling away. Makes Bucky want to cling tighter to Sam, to never let him go.
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice sounds like it’s been through a blender. Still can’t take a deep breath, panic bleeding into hyperventilation. Bucky puts his hand on Sam’s knee, slides a little closer. He’s never seen someone else have a panic attack before. Isn’t sure that he’s wanted, that Sam wants him to witness this moment of weakness. He’s about to speak, to ask what he can do, when Sam leans forward and presses his face against Bucky’s chest.
Fuck, Bucky thinks, and wraps his arms around Sam. “It’s alright, you’re okay, I’m right here,” he murmurs. Tries to make his voice soft and gentle and soothing, the way Sam’s is for him after a nightmare. Isn’t sure he gets the tone right, but Sam shudders, relaxes minutely. Balls his fists in the hem of Bucky’s ratty t-shirt, clinging for dear life.
“Fuck,” Sam whimpers. He’s still shaking, but it’s slowing.
Bucky is wildly out of his element. But, fuck, all he wants to do is make sure Sam is okay. Wants to pay him back even the tiniest fraction of comfort and peace that Sam gives him all the time. So he sits there, arms wrapped around him, and focuses on breathing deep and slow and even. Is rewarded with Sam’s struggling attempts to match his breathing.
Bucky’s not really sure if it helps. Maybe it’s just Sam calming down. Panic attacks don’t usually last too long, but Bucky’s still relieved when Sam’s trembling slows, when he starts to relax against Bucky’s chest. Squeezes his just a little tighter, a gentle pressure to remind Sam that he’s there, that Sam isn’t alone. Sam doesn’t seem to mind; if anything, he relaxes a little further. Pressure, maybe? Bucky squeezes a little bit, experimentally. He’s gratified when Sam lets out a groan and sags further into Bucky’s arms.
“Grounding?” Bucky asks, even though he knows.
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, voice a little slurred. “Feels… good.”
“You wanna go back to sleep?”
“Nuh uh.” Sam sounds like he’s already halfway there, though, and Bucky chuckles.
“You sure?”
Sam presses a little closer to Bucky, voice barely audible from where his face is smushed to Bucky’s chest. “No more dreams.”
Yeah, Bucky gets that. “You wanna talk about it?”
Some of the tension comes back. “I –”
“Only if you want to, Sam.”
“I know.” Sam sighs, sits up. Pulls back a bit from Bucky’s arms. Bucky tries not to make a face at the loss of contact, but it’s hard. Wants to feel Sam in his arms, keep him safe from nightmares. Fuck, when did he get so protective of this man? Little by little, Sam just keeps digging his way through Bucky’s armor, all without realizing it.
“Want some tea? Hot chocolate?” Bucky knows he’s got a ridiculous sweet tooth. It’s maybe the whole reason he keeps hot chocolate in his apartment.
Sam pauses. Bites his lip. The gesture makes something warm shoot through Bucky.
“Hot chocolate sounds good,” Sam hedges.
Bucky grins. Ignores the spark of attraction he feels. “Hot chocolate coming right up. You gonna be okay here by yourself, or d’you wanna follow me out to the kitchen?”
Sam looks a little surprised by the question. Surprised, but not offended. Actually thinks about it for a moment.
“I’ll follow you,” he says, slowly, like he’s still thinking it through. “I-In a minute, gotta – gotta take a minute.” Takes a deep breath. In a more level voice, he adds, “But, someone’s gotta be there to keep you from burning down the damn kitchen.” And Bucky doesn’t even give him shit for the obvious lie. Fuck, he must really be in love.
That brings all his thoughts to a grinding halt. Sam is luckily occupied by dragging the blanket off the bed to cocoon around himself, so he doesn’t see the way Bucky’s cheeks turn bright red, the way he bites his lip to keep from blurting out this new revelation. It’s, fuck, if ever there was a right time, it’s certainly not right now. Sam’s too vulnerable. Too raw. Needs to be comforted and taken care of.
Bucky escapes from the bedroom. It’s not any better out there. Sam’s been getting closer and closer, and now there are all these reminders everywhere of Sam’s presence in his life. There’s a potted plant on the windowsill that Sam brought over when he insisted Bucky’s apartment was too minimalist. (Like a fucking jail cell, Bucky, what the fuck is wrong with you? he’d said, and Bucky had replied, all deadpan, feels like home. They’d laughed for ages after that, and now Bucky can’t stop smiling whenever he takes care of the plant.) There are newly framed photos of Bucky, Sam, and Torres, of Bucky and Sam, of Louisiana and the boys and Sarah. Of the summer sunset over the water the night he and Sam fixed they boat.
And now there are books stacked on the coffee table, books that Sam brings over and casually leaves everywhere, because it’s not like I won’t be back to finish them, Bucky, and random ones he thinks Bucky should read. There are soft blankets and pillows because Sam keeps dragging him to IKEA to make his apartment comfortable and livable. And Bucky stands there, awash in the revelation that he’s in love with Sam, and looks at just how much his tiny little apartment looks like a home, like someone actually lives in it and takes care of it. It’s all because of Sam, literally all of it, and Bucky has to stand at the kitchen counter with his fists clenched and take a few deep breaths before he can move again.
He’s in love. He’s in love with this fucking dumbass death-wish-larger-than-Steve-Rogers asshole with a heart of gold and more empathy than he knows what to do with. It’s absolutely fucking moronic. But Sam’s systematically stripped away all of Bucky’s defenses until he can’t imagine what life is like without him anymore.
“You okay?”
Sam’s voice is soft, uncertain. Bucky looks up. Expects to see him wrapped in a blanket or something. Isn’t prepared to see him standing there in his ratty sweatpants, wearing one of Bucky’s sweatshirts. It was on the floor and – fuck, Bucky went for a run in it the other day, it probably still smells like him. White-hot desire rushes through him, nearly buckling his knees with the force of it.
Sam, thank God, doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Just stands there all sleep-rumpled and soft with that damn little crease between his eyebrows.
“Too much?” Sam asks, and it feels like a dagger. “I can –”
“No!” Bucky panics. “No, I – c’mon, don’t go, let me – let me repay you, fuck, just let me –”
“You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.”
Buck, he wants to say, don’t make us go backwards, but his tongue feels so tied.
“No, I –” Takes a deep breath and tries to start over. “Please, Sam, I want to – I want to take care of you. The way you do for me. It’s not too much. I promise.” Feels like too much truth, if anything. Too easy to see Bucky’s emotions on his face, the way he feels about Sam.
Sam looks at him for a long moment. And then the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he shuffles forward to drop his head on Bucky’s shoulder, all casually like this is just a thing they do.
“Thank God,” he says, voice so hollow. “Jesus. I was – I didn’t want to –”
“I’m here,” Bucky says, and wraps his arms around Sam again.
They stand like that for several minutes, silent under the fluorescent lights of Bucky’s kitchen. With almost agonizing slowness, Sam relaxes into Bucky’s embrace, until it feels like Bucky’s the only thing holding him up anymore.
“C’mon,” Bucky murmurs. “Let’s get you on the couch.”
Once he’s got Sam settled, Bucky busies himself making hot chocolate. Brings over two piping hot cups and settles on the couch next to Sam. Sam’s got this faraway look in his eyes staring off into the distance like it holds all the answers. It takes a few shakes of his shoulder to bring him back to the present.
“Already?” Sam asks as Bucky hands him the mug. “Fuck, this always happens when I have nightmares.”
“Losing time?” Bucky knows even before Sam nods. Can’t remember how much time he lost, especially in Wakanda after coming off the ice. Doesn’t know the name for it. Just knows how frustrating it is, how out of control it makes him feel, and imagines Sam feels the same. “You cold?”
Sam’s shivering, just a little bit. “I – a bit, yeah,” Sam admits in a small voice. Like there’s something to be ashamed of, letting the past make him freeze like this.
Bucky grabs the afghan off the back of the couch and settles it around Sam’s shoulders. Tucks it in like a blanket and a bit of hovering will protect Sam from the worst of his ghosts.
“Thanks,” Sam whispers. Draws it close around his shoulders. Hunches down, tucked against the couch like he wants to hide from the world.
They’re silent while they sip hot chocolate. But it’s comfortable. Bucky rests his hand on Sam’s knee, the blanket in between them. Feels like a barrier he can’t breach. All Bucky wants to do is wrap Sam up in his arms and never let him go. When did he get this sentimental, this protective? But, fuck, Sam actually gives a shit about him. Wheedles him to take better care of himself, walks him through panic attacks, calms him down after nightmares. And he never says a thing about it, never makes fun of him for it, never acts like he owes Sam anything. Bucky’s pretty sure he owes Sam everything. Can’t even fathom how he can pay Sam back for the friendship and kindness he’s shown Bucky.
“It’s always the falling dream,” Sam says. It’s so soft that Bucky has to strain to hear it, even with his serum-enhanced hearing. “Always the same. It only ever changed once.”
“After Leipzig.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s silent for another few minutes. Bucky just lets him sit and collect his thoughts. “I… It’s never me. Falling, I mean. Always someone else. Riley, Rhodes. You.”
“Me?” Bucky blinks.
“Just… fear, I think.” Sam exhales. “And you did – you fell, once. Steve thought you died.” And then, when Bucky flinches, “Fuck, sorry, I shouldn’t be bringing this up.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s –” Bucky isn’t sure what it is. Not quite fine, but not quite bad. He’s had enough dreams of falling that talking about it doesn’t faze him as much as it once might have. I don’t mind. Keep going.”
Sam takes a shaky breath. “Not much else to say.” Takes another sip of hot chocolate. It’s lukewarm, now, between Bucky’s palms, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice. Stares off into the distance again, lost in the fog of ghosts and memories.
Bucky lets him sit like that for a while. Sometimes… sometimes you just have to feel it. Knows from experience that it’ll never get better, nothing will ever heal, if you just shove everything down and pretend you can’t feel it. And maybe Sam will lose a bit of time, but Bucky’s right here to take care of him. Won’t let anything happen to him.
Peeks at Sam through his lashes, trying to be surreptitious. It’s near sunrise, and the first rays of sunlight are creeping through Bucky’s curtains. The light paints Sam’s cheeks with gold, highlighting strong cheekbones and the warmest eyes Bucky’s ever seen. Except, there’s a ring of chocolate on Sam’s upper lip and it looks ridiculous. It’s even more ridiculous that Bucky finds it charming, but whatever.
Doesn’t even think about it. Reaches up with his thumb to wipe the chocolate off Sam’s lip. Wants to touch so badly, and all of his defenses are shredded. Can’t imagine not touching.
Sam blinks back to the present with Bucky’s thumb tracing across his upper lip. Catches Bucky’s hand as he tries to pull away.
“There was… chocolate,” Bucky says lamely.
Sam’s fingers tighten around Bucky’s wrist. He presses Bucky’s hand to his cheek, hums, and closes his eyes.
“Your hand is warm,” he mumbles.
Bucky is absolutely going to die. His skin feels blisteringly hot where it touches Sam’s cheek, a heat that travels all the way up his arm and into his face, turning his cheeks bright right. He’s – he’s touching Sam’s face, Jesus, and all he can think about is how soft Sam’s lips look.
“I –” Bucky croaks.
Sam leans into the touch, though. There’s a sleepy little smile on his face. Bucky’s heart feels like it might thunder right out of his chest. Surely Sam can hear it beating, can tell just how much Bucky’s in love with him. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but he can’t keep his expression under control. Must be obvious to anyone who looks at him right now what Bucky feels for Sam.
“Sleepy,” Sam mumbles. And it’s the cutest fucking thing, it’s not fair. Why does Bucky have to find everything so endearing?
Bucky clears his throat. Makes an attempt at nonchalance. “Let’s get you back to bed, then.”
They make it, somehow. Bucky doesn’t trip over his own feet when Sam wraps himself in the afghan, shuffling like a little penguin back to bed. Schools his expression into something resembling normalcy, even. His heart won’t calm down, won’t stop beating too fast and too hard and too wanting. Sits on the edge of the bed when Sam lies down and digs his fingers into his knees to keep from reaching out to touch again.
“No, man, come to bed.” Sam says it like it’s nothing, like it’s just something normal. Something they do. It – well, it kind of is something normal at this point. Ever since Louisiana they’ve been falling into the same bed as each other for the inevitable moments when Bucky wakes up terrified or dissociating.
“I –” Bucky’s mouth is too dry to form words.
“Buck.”
Fuck, he can’t resist. Can’t stop himself from lying down and letting Sam curl closer to him. Feels more than he hears Sam’s low sigh as he slots himself against Bucky’s side and closes his eyes.
“Thank you,” Sam mumbles, cheek smushed against Bucky’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Bucky whispers. “I just – I want –” Why the fuck are words so hard to find?
“I know. But it… has been a long time.” Sam’s voice is trailing towards sleep. “Since someone cared. Enough to stay, at least.” He lifts his head, peering at Bucky with his eyes half closed. “I just… it means a lot.”
Fuck it, Bucky thinks. If he’s going to make mistakes – and falling into bed over and over again with Sam Wilson, even if they’re not having sex, is absolutely a mistake – he might as well make them comprehensively, right? And Bucky is so tired of wanting and longing and aching. Doesn’t know if he deserves to have good things in life, after everything he’s done, but he’s damn sure going to try.
He leans forward. Presses his forehead to Sam’s for a brief second, closes his eyes. Doesn’t want to see Sam’s reaction until after. Gives Sam enough time to pull away, if he wants to, and then –
Sam’s lips are so soft. Softer than he could’ve imagined. And the little strangled gasp that Sam makes shoots straight to Bucky’s heart. They melt together, until the only thing that exists to Bucky is the press of Sam’s lips against his and the way Sam’s hand is sliding along his hip to tug him closer.
“Oh, fuck,” Sam groans. Pulls back, but not too far, just to press his forehead to Bucky’s again. “Fuck, thank God, I was starting to think you’d never do that.”
“What.” Bucky’s not sure he heard him right.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” Sam drawls, suddenly looking much more awake. “I have been flirting with you for months.”
“I… what?”
Sam huffs out a little laugh. It tickles Bucky’s cheek. And then instead of answering, he kisses Bucky again. More insistently, this time, the press of lips an intoxicating rush of feelings. Bucky wishes they could lie there forever and just make out. Wishes he didn’t have to think about the fact that Sam’s been flirting with him for months, and maybe Bucky could have had this sooner, if only he hadn’t been such a coward for so long.
“Sam,” he croaks, voice absolutely wrecked.
“Shh, baby.” Sam presses feather-soft kisses to Bucky’s forehead. Trails his thumb along Bucky’s jaw. Touches him like he’s human, like he deserves soft things. “I’m right here.”
And he is. He always is, right there when Bucky needs him. Always with a gentle smile, a murmured word, comfort, or reassurance. Bucky can’t help himself, can’t stop himself from closing the distance between them with a desperation he’s been feeling for months. Seals their lips together with a groan. That one touch sends sparks shooting through his veins, until he feels like he might burn up from the force of it all.
Sam kisses exactly how Bucky thought he would, and better all at once. His lips are so gentle. Careful in their explorations, like he knows that Bucky might shatter if he goes too fast. Bucky stifles a groan, presses closer. Can’t get close enough, needs to feel Sam, to feel him there –
His tongue slips into Bucky’s mouth, careful explorations, and Bucky might just spontaneously combust from the bolt of arousal that rushes through him. Groans against Sam’s mouth, surrendering to the feeling of their lips pressed together.
“Buck,” Sam groans, when he pulls back for breath. “Fuck, God, I have been wanting to do that for ages.”
Me too, Bucky thinks. Can’t bring himself to say the words. Tries to communicate it anyways, with the way he presses his forehead to Sam’s and just breathes. And then Sam shifts, and Bucky loses his air all over again.
It’s almost funny. Bucky hasn’t been… interested in anything since he got all the brainwashing shit out of his brain. It’s not something he thinks about, most of the time. Maybe the Bucky-of-before might’ve been concerned, but Present Bucky has more important things to worry about than whether or not he’s getting laid. Or even if he’s just masturbating. Looked it up, once, just to find out that it’s pretty normal for returning combat soldiers. That there’s a whole pharmaceutical industry devoted to helping men have erections. But it just… wasn’t a big concern.
Now, though, it’s like everything’s woken up all at once. Bucky feels alive with emotion in a way he hasn’t in so long. Clings to Sam, whimpers when Sam moves his knee again, and presses his face against Sam’s shoulder.
“Too much?” Sam murmurs. Strokes a hand along the back of Bucky’s head.
Bucky nods. He wants it – God, does he want it – but. On his terms. In the best frame of mind. When he’s prepared, mentally, for the closeness and the emotions and the need. And Sam’s probably exhausted, and they’re both messes, and –
“So we’ll just sleep.” Sam brushes his lips against Bucky’s cheek. “It’s okay, Buck. There’s no rush. We can take as much time as we need.”
Grateful doesn’t even begin to describe what Bucky’s feeling. He – fuck, he loves the way Sam knows all the little intimate details of Bucky’s mind. That he knows how to reassure Bucky with just the right words. How patient he is, how caring.
“I love you,” Bucky whimpers, and there are tears in his eyes. Can’t look at Sam, can’t –
Sam’s lips press against his again, gentle but insistent.
“I love you, too,” Sam murmurs.
They curl up so closely, tucked against each other like two puzzle pieces. Bucky’s on one side, vibranium arm covered with a pillow so Sam can lie on it. And Sam’s tucked himself as close to Bucky as he can get, one hand curled tight in Bucky’s t-shirt, as if Bucky might disappear if Sam let go. So, Bucky lets his vibranium arm rest across Sam’s side. Sam groans, goes a little bit more boneless, with the added pressure.
“We should get you a weighted blanket,” Bucky mumbles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of Sam’s head, just because he can. Sam just sighs, mumbles something unintelligible against Bucky’s shoulder, and promptly falls asleep.
Bucky lies there for a while. He could sleep, he’s comfortable enough, but he wants to just… take a few minutes to marvel. All the terrible, shitty things he went through brought him to this moment. And Bucky’s not glad it turned out this way – he’s scarred and battered and bruised and there are holes inside his heart and mind that he doesn’t think he’ll ever fully heal from. And Sam has been through so much, too. They’ve both had to struggle for it, every step of the way.
But maybe he can be glad for how it ended. Because this is an ending – feels like the moment where Bucky takes his past and finally puts it, once and for all, in the past. This is the future, here in his arms, and he’s going to do everything he can to hold onto it. Onto Sam. Maybe he can be glad that at the end of all the nightmares and trauma, there’s a person waiting for him with a beautiful smile and a heart of gold, a person who wants to take care of him and help him heal.
“I love you,” he murmurs to Sam. Just because he can. Sam doesn’t respond, fast asleep in his arms, but that’s okay. Bucky will tell him in the morning. And in the afternoon. And every day as for as long as Sam wants Bucky by his side.
He thinks back to the day in Louisiana, sitting at the kitchen table with Sarah. About the way she knew before either of them, probably, and was just waiting for them to get together. About the way AJ and Cass started calling him Uncle Bucky, with no prompting from any of the adults. About the way Sam looked at him on the water, at the table with Sarah, in the middle of the night. He had the truth of it then, he thinks. Looks down at the man sleeping in his arms with no hesitation or trace of fear, and thinks:
Yeah. This is home.