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Sam’s heart is beating a mile a minute and trying its hardest to thump its way right out his chest. Seconds tick by before a clap of thunder makes him jump. Bucky, Hydra’s onetime assassin, backs away. He is already halfway down the steps before Sam calls his name.
“Wait!” Sam calls, nearly wincing at the sight of Steve’s friend in the porch light. He’s soaked through, hair shoved under a baseball cap, dark rings around blue eyes. He opens the front door wide. This is the Bucky they had spent months looking for without any luck. “Come inside? At least until it stops raining.”
Barnes hesitates. He quickly glances down the street before he steps back on the porch. After looking down his mud-caked boots and Sam’s pristine wood floor, he pulls off his shoes with a squelch. It doesn’t make much difference; his clothes are waterlogged and a puddle is already building around his feet. His right hand goes out in jerking movements, the pulpy mess of a paper clutched in a white-knuckled fist.
“What’s this?” Sam asks tentatively even as he reaches to take the wad. There is no answer, but the title of the Smithsonian can just barely be made out. Of course, Bucky had gone looking for himself. The airman opens his mouth to let loose a multitude of questions when he notices Bucky barely containing a shiver and says, “I bet you could use a hot shower.”
This is a horrible idea—letting a Hydra assassin into his house, one that could kill him in less than five seconds. But Bucky is standing in the foyer with his hands shoved in the pockets of a probably stolen hoodie. He’s trembling violently and looks like he’s on the verge of collapsing.
Sam smiles gently, moves slowly. His hand hovers a comfortable distance from the other’s cheek before he asks, “May I?” Several seconds pass; then, Bucky nods once. Sam puts a hand gently on his forehead, thumb brushing away stray stands of hair. “You don’t feel too good. I’m going to call Steve.”
Bucky’s hand moves to grab hold of Sam’s hand, changing direction at the last second to hold onto his shirt. Tightlipped, he shakes his head.
“All right,” Sam says. His hand rests lightly on Bucky’s forearm. Placation. “I won’t call Steve, but you have to let me take you to a doctor.”
Again Bucky shakes his head. And Sam does not want to scare him away because right now is the pivotal moment and everything’s resting on his shoulders.
“Okay. No doctor yet either.” Sam presses his lips together in thought. “Why are you here?”
Lips part as if about to speak. Bucky merely drags his vacant stare up from the floor and meets Sam’s eye. He pulls his hands from his pockets, and hands the airman a Derringer, TEC-38, and a Gerber Mark II.
“Right.” Sam sets the weapons on the kitchen counter. “How about that shower?”
As his unexpected houseguest is scrubbing off layers of dirt, Sam lays a pair of sweatpants on the bed, a thick sweater, an unworn pair of Christmas socks. He wishes for a second that he was not so very good at helping, so steadfast ready to lend a hand, because he’s already halfway down the stairs on his way to the kitchen.
Hands move without thought. Nervous anticipation means Sam cooks. Canned chicken noodle soup gets warmed up of the stove, and he adds spices. His hands cut extra vegetables and make toast while he begins to question his sanity. His phone sits in the back pocket of jeans like a lead weight. But calling Steve now would be a betrayal of trust. So he doesn’t reach for it, but it almost makes him sick. The fear that should be firmly rooted in place dissipates at the sight of Bucky making his way down to join Sam in the kitchen, towel draped around his shoulders and dressed in Sam’s clothes.
“I made you something to eat,” Sam tells him gently. Ready to help, Sam is stepping within reach, close to hands that he hasn’t seen do anything but break. “You look like hell,” he adds. This means he is more worried than he can say. “You have to let me take you to a doctor.”
Droplets of water fly from soaked hair as Bucky shakes his head. Shaking—all of him is shaking.
“I know you don’t want to go to the doctor, and you don’t want me to call Steve. I don’t think you even want to be here. But you need help and I’m going to help you. Just say something, Barnes.”
The soldier takes his lower lip between his teeth, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “Bucky.” His voice is like metal grating against concrete. He swallows a few times and lets out a stuttering exhale. Words in Russian slip out before he corrects himself. “Everyone…calls me Bucky.”
Sam sighs, somewhat relieved. He holds out a hand and Bucky hesitates before he shakes it, his grip unsure and afraid to hurt. “It’s good to meet you, Bucky. Call me Sam,” he says.
“I need somewhere to sleep.”
This means a real bed and someplace warm. Bucky’s stomach growls in the silence.
“How about something to eat, too?”
--
Bucky eats like he hasn’t seen food in months. Soup is gone in a matter of minutes and Sam gives him tea with a squeeze of lemon and honey, and makes five sandwiches. Bucky eats more than Sam has ever seen Steve put down. And when he’s done he rises to his feet, fingertips rest on tabletop as he goes through the list of polite social interaction. In the end, he takes every dirty dish and puts it in the sink.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Sam says quickly. “You rest.”
Metal hand lingers on sponge, a poor image of domesticity. “No.”
“Bucky, please.” Maybe working so long at the VA lets Sam pick up subtle cues, allows him to understand a little better than some. “I’ve got you.”
Bucky shifts and sways on his feet, eyes half-mast and glassy. Sam steps up instinctively, his hand on Bucky’s arm. Metal arm grabs fistfuls of the thick borrowed sweater. Heart beat quickens. He shifts again, this time closer.
Sam slowly wraps an arm around the soldier’s waist as they move close. His movements are unsure, fearful. Bucky has his hands high up Sam’s waist, cheek resting on his shoulder. This unknown space, this press of bodies, is wrapped in insecurities. Tonight, Bucky’s getting a crash course in how people can be gentle, can be more than targets or missions or a means to an end.
“Shouldn’t be here,” Bucky murmurs absentmindedly as he trembles in Sam’s arms.
Arms hold on tighter. Bucky is so warm and skin still pink from a vigorous scrub in the shower.
“Yes, you should. Trust me to take care of you,” Sam reassures him. After all, the least he can do is give the man a good place to sleep.
Bucky’s eyes flutter close, his forehead resting in the curve of the other’s neck. Muscles relax slightly and he nods once.
Half a step behind, Sam follows Bucky up the stairs. A gentle hand guides Bucky back to the guest bedroom, where he tumbles in among the blankets and sheets, curls in on himself with hands clasped against his chest. Sam moves to tuck him in like a child when metal fingertips brush against his forearm.
“Samuel,” Bucky says in an exhale of quiet breath. Eyes are closed and he’s hovering right on the edge of sleep born from exhaustion.
Sam smiles and lays a hand gently on Bucky’s forehead. “Only my mother calls me Samuel. And only when she’s mad. Just call me Sam.”
“’M Sorry.” Mechanical fingers wrap loosely around his wrist.
A melancholy feeling settles as Sam wonders what it must feel like to get conflicting images of oneself, how two wildly different people can coincide in the same body. Sam swallows hard.
“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he finally says.
Bucky’s grip tightens marginally. “Wait.” A beat. “Please.”
Several seconds tick by before Sam hardens his resolve and lays down on top of the blankets. “All right, I’ll stay for a minute.”
Bucky shivers, organic hand coming up from under the blanket to touch Sam shirt as if to reassure himself that he’s still there. “Thank you.”
A car backfires. A cat screams. White noise of too large southern bugs. Refrigerator is humming and Sam remembers he left the lights on in the kitchen. But Bucky’s hand is flat against his chest and Sam wouldn’t break his sleep for a bit of wasted electricity. It’s somewhere between midnight and three in the morning, and Sam is falling asleep to Bucky’s easy breaths.
--
Sam wakes and it feels like being pressed between tectonic plates. His head is pounding and the back of his throat feels it’s forming a small desert. But warm blankets have been piled on top of him and he recognizes the feel of his own bed beneath him. Worming his way up through the mass of covers, Sam cracks one eye open against the too bright light filtering in through curtains and looks around. Alone again. Sam sits up and holds his head in his hands as the room spins slightly.
A soft clearing of throat, and the airman looks up to see Bucky standing at the foot of his bed, steaming cup sitting comfortably in mechanical hand.
“Glad to see your still here,” Sam croaks through sandpaper throat. He tries for a cough and winces. “Did you have breakfast yet?”
Bucky doesn’t answer but set the cup on bedside table, shifting weight from one foot to the other as he grabs fistfuls of borrowed sweater.
“Whatever’s in the fridge is yours.” Sam waves a hand and sinks back onto warm covers.
“Don’t you know not to sleep with someone who’s sick?”
Sam pokes head out from beneath covers. “Maybe if you didn’t bat those baby blues, I wouldn’t have.” Sarcasm paints the tone of his voice.
The barest hint of a smile pulls at Bucky’s lips for a brief second before it’s gone. He turns toward the door. “I should go.”
Sam wants to argue but all he can do is hum angrily. A hand rests on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Sam.” And time moves unevenly before Sam hears Bucky’s shaky voice say, “Capt—Steve?”