When they send him on the mission, Sam has every intention of completing it and getting out. But maybe it was the storm’s timing or the way the sky glowed that melancholic pink when his plane touched down. But in the end it is all traced back to the way Sam Wilson’s heart restarts when he is dragged out of a lake at two in the morning.

But that’s not the full truth of the matter, and most things are never the full truth of the matter. As a spy, Sam knew this. But apparently a pair of gunmetal blue eyes and soft hands can through over a lot of his hesitations.

The day is a cloudy one, when he gets the call from Natasha. He’s standing on the balcony of his too empty loft, feeling the ache of Riley’s absence yet again. But it’s alright to feel things a little too much, his mother always said. Sam scoffs out loud and sips his black coffee.

Feeling too much is what got you killed in the field. And it wasn’t as if Sam was for acting like a complete, empty being. He just thought most people needed to master the art of getting their shit together before deciding to join the government's spy agency. That’s all.

When his phone rings, he flinches a bit and then picks up. He smiles out of habit at the business quality of his best friend's voice.

“What’s up, Nat ?”

“We got a job for you, Wilson. Apparently there have been some sightings of suspicious activity in Russia. We were laying low and not monitoring it as a threat for a while, but Rogers thinks it might be more than we bargained for.”

Sam is definitely awake now, sitting heavily on one of the few patio chairs he owns.

“And what? You’re sending me and not a whole damn team? This is practically suicide, Natasha.”

“Trust me, I fucking know, Sam.”

The use of his first name lets him know that she’s worried for him and probably pissed at Steve for letting him go by himself. He straightens and tries to change the tone of his voice from authoritative to soothing.

“Babe, I’ll be fine.”

“Sure. Yeah, I know.”

❄

The bumpiness of the plane ride should have been a no brainer that something was wrong, but Sam was too caught up in reviewing the file he had been given. When the plane violently jerked in the air, he shot up from his seat, and turned towards the cockpit.

“Rhodey? Is everything all right?”

There was no answer only the swift dive of the plane’s nose as it spun out of control. Sam swore as he was thrown against the side of the cabin, and tried to get up only to be pushed down by the rapid change in pressure.

He barely made it out of his seat before he felt the impact of the plane slamming against frozen tundra and everything went dark.

Sam vaguely registers that he’s in a body of water, the surface swimming and lazily shimmering above him. He can’t breathe and swallows copious amounts of water before he realizes that the thing that looks like oxygen isn’t.

Hazily he realizes that he must be in halocline, the meeting of salt and freshwater. Everything is beautiful and dark and blue, like most people he thinks. It’s almost ironic that in this time of impending death, the brain decides to use their last moments to become poetic.

He floats, suspending in a seemingly liminal space. The point before the next but after the before. He glances up, vision decorated in spots of white and black. He sees a man-shaped thing coming towards him and then nothing.

He wakes in soft lighting, body covered in something warm and fur-like. There’s piano in the background and if this is heaven, Sam would like the fuck to not be here. But he’s warm and maybe-ish not dead?

The bed shifts as weight is added, and years of training has Sam shooting up and searching for a weapon. Soft hands settle on his shoulders and push him back down, a velvet voice cooing and soothing him back into the dark place of sleep.

❄

When he woke again, he is the arms of this anonymous person, being spoon fed some type of broth. He sips hesitantly, more grateful to be alive than suspicious of the food being given to him. The person strokes his hair and murmurs praise to him.

Sam mumbles something along the lines of ‘name please?’ and receives a crystalline laugh and a whisper of ‘Bucky.’

❄

He finally can sit up on his own when he sees what this Bucky looks like. He’s a petite little thing, at least to Sam who’s a whopping 6’2. He has laugh lines by his eyes, which the most stunning shade of blue that he’s ever seen.

It’s the type of blue that makes you think of dark nights underneath the stars and the ninety-nine percent of the ocean that humans had yet to explore.

Bucky is wrapped in a soft ivory sweater, brunette curls pulled into a man bun. He’s leaning against the door frame, smiling in a fond way that makes Sam realize that he’s indulging his moment of discovery. But something is tugging at the seams of Sam’s thoughts, something that screams that Bucky is familiar.

Something, something —

“You’re the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky smiles softly and shakes his head. He pauses and then speaks carefully.

“I do not do that anymore. I do not like being a killer.”

The stilted character of his words make Sam see that English is not his preferred language.

“What’s your native language?” he asks, as he swings his legs off the bed in an attempt to get to his feet.

Bucky walks over and provides aid in his efforts, responding in his stilted English that’s edged with the sharp yet melodic tones of some other dialect.

“Russian.”

Sam nods and then switched over effortlessly. Natasha would have been proud.

“ Where am I?”

“In a small town outside of Moscow.”

“Hmm. Name of the town?”

“Brooklynd.”

Sam turns carefully to stretch his body out. His joints creak and ache as they have been motionless for quite some time.

“ Be careful. You could hurt yourself.”

Bucky walks out of the room after that, going God knows where. Sam follows him, wanting to get to know his surroundings better. Bucky leads him to a kitchen, which is minimal and clean, complete with a marble island and steel oven.

“ Being an assassin paid well, I guess?”

Bucky tenses and frowns, body now hard and hurt . Sam almost regrets the comment, but then remembers what this man did.

“ Heedless of what you might think, asshole, I did not enjoy what I did. I was brainwashed and manipulated. I do not forgive myself even now, but I do not need others to remind me.”

Sam shuts up after that, feeling awkward and rude, rubbing the back of his neck when he still can’t look Bucky in the eye. Bucky just lays a record on the record player and measures of Franz Liszt seep out into the thinly stretched silence.

❄

There are certain things Sam hates. And one is being reminded of how lonely he is. The added presence of Bucky has him relaxing and a little less on edge. The cabin is all wood, leather, and fur ; it reminded Sam of kindness.

It’s times like these where Sam has to remind himself that this man was a bred assassin. That he had killed and survived like the rest. But the Bucky that dresses in soft sweaters and cards his fingers through his curls as he reads says different.

The Bucky that at once puts in a  James Bay record once he realizes Sam likes it says different. And Sam slowly comes to terms with the fact that this loneliness is the type that creeps up at three in the morning, the type that has him sitting up alone two days later.

“ You okay, Sam?”

Sam nods, absentminded in the quiet stillness of the tundra. Bucky walks away and then returns a short while later.

He sits next to him lightly, and hands him a liquid that seeps with the tender scent of hazelnut.

“Mm. Lonely ?”

When they make eye contact, Sam sees the same ache in Bucky’s posture that he knows echoes in his. He sighs and nods, head falling back against the wooden wall.

“ ‘M tired.”

“Me too, любимец.”

Sam vaguely recognizes the term as being in Bulgarian and is too exhausted to translate. He just hums and pretends he isn’t leaning more on Bucky than the wall at this point.

❄

He jolts awake in the morning, translation at the tip of his tongue.

Darling. Bucky had called him darling.

❄

The next morning is quiet and gentle, Bucky giving him more of that hazelnut love in a cup.

The record that’s on this morning is by some band called Sundara Karma. Sam raises an eyebrow and makes a witty comment about how he didn’t realize Bucky was so cultural.

Bucky laughs and tells him that they’re actually from the UK. Sam grins and takes in the sight of this gentle man with his hair down and eyes crinkled in a bright smile.

He starts asking more questions that pertain to Bucky himself than the mission. He learns menial things like how Bucky is a Pisces and how he wants to learn to read the stars.

Stuff like how Bucky hates iced coffee and how for a year after he got out from working for Hydra, he took wood-working classes ‘cause he was so scared to go to therapy.

It takes Sam a minute to realize that both Steve and Natasha had been born in Russia and had briefly dabbled under Hydra as well. When he tells that to Bucky, his face shutters as memories race around in his brain.

“Yes, I know. I trained Natasha.”

Sam sips from his mug and keeps quiet, giving the other man the space to think things out.

“ I had briefly taught Steve, but he left with Natasha and never came back for me. He promised and I -”

Bucky shakes his head sharply and changes the record, which has been done for quite some time. Sam recognizes the beginning strands of Sign Of The Times by that one UK artist.

He gets up to place his cup in the sink, and touches Bucky’s arm softly.

“ I would have. Come back, I mean.”

“I know.”

The way they look at each other has Sam spending a few minutes longer in the shower than necessary.

❄

When Sam finally remembers that his watch has an SOS signal built in, he finds himself lacking in the will to use it. He stares ( discreetly he likes to imagine ) at Bucky all spread out on the couch in his living room, one arm hanging off as he reads some art history book he found somewhere.

But still he does it, late at night, with his back against the headboard of his bed. Natasha picks up immediately, voice several octaves higher than normal.

She was on the verge of breakdown, Sam knows. All because she didn’t know where he was.

“Sam?? Sam, are you okay??”

“Yeah, Nat, actually never been better.”

“Where have you -- I can just -- Steve said that -- Are you --?”

“Natasha, breathe.”

The sharp tone renders silence from her.

“Sam, why didn’t you use the SOS first thing?”

Sam doesn’t answer to quickly, making sure that the heavy answer that sits underneath his ribs is heavy with truth and not a warm lie he has been incubating. But when he closes his eyes briefly, he sees the flash of gunmetal blue and thick lashes against his lids.

He wants Bucky, any part of him that he can clutch and call his. Wants to catch him in the rain, only to spin him and pin him against the wall. Wants to know what it’s like to have his body pressed against the other’s, the only sound the beating of their fractured hearts.

Wants to show him his curated collection of old movies, to tell him he loves him in all the languages his body allows him to speak.

Wants to curl around him the darkness, and pick him apart, kissing each piece that he takes his time to explore.

“I’m using it now. And I’m bringing someone back. Someone Steve abandoned actually.”

The hushed quiet on the other line tells Sam that Natasha knows exactly who’s coming with him.

“Sam -”

“See ya soon, Nat.”

He ends the emergency call and lays his head back.

“ I am coming with you?”

Sam’s head snaps towards the gravely tenderness of Bucky’s voice.

“If you want to. I didn’t mean --”

“There’s nowhere I wouldn’t want to go to without you.”

And he leaves the room, and Sam, in a hazy rush of need.

❄

The arrival is a short affair. Steve won’t let him rest until he’s checked him for all sorts of injuries.

Sam smiles tightly and reaches behind him, fingers interlacing with Bucky’s. He turns to face him, tucking a loose curl back into his bun.

“ We are going to be okay, сладост”

Bucky smiles fondly at the Bulgarian endearment.

“We weren’t made to be anything but, слънчоглед.”

And Sam knows it’s digging at everyone around him that they can’t understand a word, but he can’t bring himself to care.

❄

They get married in a flower field, eyes only for each other.

Bucky tangles them together and they watch the sun set. Then Sam turns, and holds out a hand, asking a silent question. Bucky answers with a soft kiss in the middle of his palm and follows his beloved.

Sam loads him carefully in the small plane that’s waiting for them, tucking blankets around him like he’s the world’s most precious cargo.

And then he starts the engine, compass locked on a small little town outside of Moscow.

In that small moment, their love is every liminal space that aches to be found.

❄