Work Text:
Bucky likes buying things because Sam deserves it. Soft smiles and softer touches and sometimes Sam makes extra food for dinner and it feels comfortable and safe. Sam absent-mindedly traces circles on Bucky's arm while they're watching a film and Bucky holds his breath, trying to make the moment last longer than he deserves.
He tries to grow plants and keeps failing. He finally manages to grow a chilli tree and he carefully cuts the chillies off, placing them in a container and taking them to Sam. Sam makes dinner with them. Bucky stares at Sam’s hands as he cuts them - at the way the sunlight falls on them, at his broad fingernails and his soft palms and the bright yellows and oranges of the chilli. He thinks of sunlight and warmth and when Sam threatens to throw Bucky's plate away if he doesn't start preparing the table, he moves quickly.
The warm yellow of the chilli against Sam's skin is engraved in his mind hours afterward, when he's home and staring at the blank walls of his apartment walls.
-
"Tie my hair up for me," Bucky demands. He's sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged and almost hunched over the controller gripped tightly. Sam is sprawled on the bean bag to his right, a paperback in his hands and his eyes are half-shut.
He doesn't move to help him so Bucky sighs loudly. “Tie my hair up.”
Sam lowers the book and peers at Bucky over the top of it. “A please would be nice, James .”
Bucky ignores the thrill through his spine at the use of his first name. He's used to the way his body hums and vibrates at everything Sam does - the way he talks and laughs and rolls his eyes and flutters his eyes when he's sleepy and -
“Sorry, Samuel. Would you please tie my hair for me.”
“That doesn't sound like a request, it sounds like a demand. No incentive for me to help you there.”
Bucky spares a few seconds of his game to glance across at Sam. The top buttons of Sam’s shirt is unbuttoned and he can see the edge of one dark nipple and he swallows and averts his eyes back quickly to the screen.
“My therapist said it's healthy for me to want things, Sam. Don't you want me to be better?” he wheedles. He could probably do better than wheedling - he remembers being suave when he was younger, before the shadow of war, but it's hard to focus these days.
He hears Sam snort and then the sound of movement as Sam gets up. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam stretching, hands high above his head and his shirt riding up.
Bucky keeps his eyes trained on the screen, hands gripping the controller harder.
“Hair tie’s on the table,” he says. Sam shuffles over and then slowly sinks into the couch behind Bucky. He's graceful and gentle, aware that Bucky was still ‘ recovering’ and he signals his movements before he does them. It's not easy but Bucky’s seen the way he does the same with Steve and Rhodes so he likes to think it's not because of him. Likes to think he's normal.
“Aren't you going to cut your hair soon?” Sam asks, threading his fingers through Bucky’s hair.
Sam’s hands are different to Steve’s. Steve is still careful, refuses to touch Bucky unless he needs to, out of some misplaced desire not to hurt him. Sam’s hands are strong and steady, a constant. Sam is a constant. It's easy when it's Sam flicking his forehead or brushing past him or poking him in the side to make him move.
Sam leans over as he ties Bucky's hair into a loose, messy bun. He smells of shea butter and cinnamon and Bucky focuses on that instead of the way Sam's fingers ghost over the back of his ears and the nape of his neck to gather the loose strands of hair.
Bucky shivers at the feeling. Sam pulls away and stands up, taking his soft fingers and his fragrance with him. Bucky feels cold.
“Get a jumper, snowman,” Sam says, trundling away out of the room.
Bucky touches the back of his own neck with his right hand but it's not the same.
-
Sam has bad days, too.
Bucky understands that, logically. But when he rings at Sam's door and the first thing he notices is the deep shadows underneath Sam’s eyes, he panics, instinctively reaching out to pull Sam to him and away from whatever could hurt him.
He falters when Sam steps back. His hand falls uselessly between them.
“Sorry, man. Not today,” Sam says. He’s wearing a threadbare white shirt that’s pulled loose around the collar, and sweatpants that hang low off his hips. There’s crumbs around his mouth and one eye is slightly red, as though he’s been rubbing at it.
“Can I - do -,” Bucky starts, pauses, starts again. Seeing Sam like this is always difficult, even if it should be expected. It was a threat he couldn’t eliminate, something deep and dark that he couldn’t even face in himself, let alone in someone else. “I want to help.”
Sam shakes his head. He lifts one hand to the door.
Bucky’s forgotten a lot of things but he knows a signal to leave when he sees it.
On the way home, he buys lettuce and spends the day feeding the ducks. He keeps checking his phone in case Sam texts him.
He doesn’t.
-
Sam texts him on Saturday, six days later. It’s just gone midnight and Bucky had been flicking through the TV channels idly. Steve was on a mission somewhere in Europe with Natalia so he’s spent the past few days after his latest therapy appointment, and the aborted visit to Sam, occupying himself with bad documentaries and even worse reality shows.
Sam’s text message simply reads: Want to watch the Flintstones with me now?
Bucky responds immediately in the affirmative, and then internet searches the Flintstones.
He’s at Sam’s apartment in twenty minutes, with a large bag of chips and a packet of sweets he picked up from a 7/11 on the way. He took a few breaths before he rang the doorbell - he doesn’t know where the nervousness comes from, except the idea that Sam trusts him enough to open up to him after this. When Bucky is forced to retreat into himself and his memories, he runs from people. Sam isolates but he comes back home.
When Sam opens the door, he looks better. The dark shadows around his eyes are still there but barely perceptible. He’s in a bright yellow tank top and when he smiles, he’s sunshine bright.
“Man, I wasn’t sure you’d be awake at this time,” he grins, ushering Bucky in ahead of him. “Sorry about the other day. Thought fresh home-made juice might make up for it?
There’s a jug on Sam’s coffee table and two glasses next to it. Bucky places the chips next to them and begins taking off his jumper. Sam stretches and then curls onto the couch, legs tucked underneath him. Bucky sits at the other end of the sofa, aware of the space between them. He reaches for the remote and then tosses it to Sam gently.
“You alright, Wilson?” he says, for lack of better words. If he was someone else, if he was Sam , he would know the right words, what to say, when someone was right next to you but also far away in the depths of their mind. “You need me to do anything? Get you food?”
“Nah, man. I’m good. Well-,” Sam pauses for a second, reaches out for the bag of chips. “I’m better. Getting better. Just really wanted to watch some cartoons. You got a problem with that?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he answers.
Sam turns the television on and the lights off. The room is filled with the sounds of the cartoon, the room with its bright colours. They’re both silent for the first quarter of the episode. Bucky shifts after a bit, stretches his legs a little further down the couch. His toes brush against Sam’s legs and Sam drops one of his hands on top of Bucky’s foot and squeezes it lightly.
By the second episode, Bucky is back upright and Sam is a little closer. There’s a bit of space between them, but Bucky can feel the warmth emanating from Sam touching him. He still smells of shea butter and, now, shower gel. By the fourth episode, Sam shifts and leans against Bucky, his head dropping against Bucky’s shoulder. He yawns but his head stays against his shoulder, un-self-conscious.
Bucky has to take several steadying breaths, and tries to keep his body still. The light from the TV causes Sam’s long eyelashes to cast even longer shadows across his face. Bucky can see them fluttering, as sleep begins to take Sam. His body relaxes in increments, his shoulders go slack and his head lolls slightly against Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky stares at the television for a while. Sam’s breathing evens out, and Bucky revels in this quiet. In this trust. It reminds him of Steve, but Steve’s love was always unconditional, always there. With Sam, it was different. They had circled wearily around each other for a long time, only kept in place by Steve and their shared experiences, the shared nightmares. It had taken months to reach here, where Sam felt safe enough to fall asleep on Bucky’s shoulder in the middle of the night.
The comforting weight of Sam’s head grounds him. He lifts the arm Sam’s leaning on slowly, keeping him in place with the prosthetic arm. Bucky stretches his arm around Sam’s shoulders, releasing him slowly back onto it.
Sam huffs slightly as he buries his head further into the crook of Bucky’s arm. Bucky's fingers hover over his forehead.
He's allowed to touch, he thinks. He can. Sam is his friend. Sam's friends hug him, roughhouse with him, kiss him. He can touch.
His fingers tremble. Sam's forehead is smooth and cool. Normal. Bucky's fingers trace down Sam’s face, across his nose and cheeks and chin. He stops at his lips.
Sam sleeps peacefully. Bucky stays still for the hour it takes for Sam to wake up. The cartoon plays on.
-
“You could have just woken me up,” Sam says ruefully. When he wakes up, the first thing he does is glare balefully at Bucky while he wipes drool from his mouth.
Bucky thinks he shouldn't be so pretty in such a state. When Sam gets up to shower, he has to take several breaths and push the ball of attraction back down again.
He busies himself picking up the chip crumbs and then making tea, rummaging through Sam’s cupboards. He's been in Sam's apartment so much that he knows where everything is. By the time Sam is back, in a fresh new shirt and his hair shiny with damp, Bucky’s finished with tea and toast and a pack of biscuits spread neatly on a plate.
“Listen, you really need to learn how to actually cook,” Sam laughs, sitting down. He still looks a bit tired, but he’s smiling and that’s better than nothing. He pokes at the toast, sips the tea and then pulls a face. “What did you put in there?”
Bucky flicks his eyes up from his phone screen. “Jam. Natalia likes jam in her tea.”
Sam's face twists out of his disgusted look. “I'm not a Russian super spy. Normal tea is fine for me.”
“You’re more than welcome to make it yourself,” Bucky points out, taking the seat opposite Sam. “Nobody’s forcing you.”
He just about dodges the toast crust Sam throws at him. The next time he comes, he buys Sam a large pack of assorted herbal teas. Sam makes them both chamomile and they sit together silently, enjoying each other's company.
-
“You might as well move in here at this point,” Sam says next week, when Bucky’s standing at the door with Vietnamese take-out. Sam’s in his running gear, sweat drying on his skin, one side of his tank top wrinkled and sitting awkwardly on one hip, as though he had lifted it up to wipe at his face.
Bucky’s face grows hot from it and he pushes past Sam in an attempt to stop thinking about it. “I’m bored and you’ve finished work. Do you want me to die of boredom, Wilson?”
He makes a beeline for Sam’s couch, dropping the plastic bags on the table, next to the editions of National Geographic and Essence . Sam comes back in after a couple of moments with cutlery and a six-pack.
“If you like my company that much, you can just say so,” he grins, elbowing Bucky out of the way as he sits down. “What did you get?”
“Vietnamese. Steve said it was good.”
“Steve thinks boiling chicken with a sprinkle of salt is also good food, so don’t bring his name up here.” Sam drops onto the floor, crossing his legs. “Speaking of, where’s he at now?”
“Bulgaria,” Bucky answers. There’s the occasional back text message from burner phones with European dialling codes. He and Natasha are somewhere in Eastern Europe, clearing up some leads that they both resolutely informed Bucky he wasn’t invited to. There’s the occasional text messages from burner phones and emails, but the two have been mostly quiet, sometimes, a text from the same country three weeks apart. “Said there might be something he’ll need us to check up soon.”
“ Finally. Man’s got a self-martyr complex bigger than his arms. Has he always been so difficult in accepting help?”
Bucky grins, thinking of Steve when he was smaller and just as angry. “You would not believe.”
They spend the remainder of the food laughing about Steve. The coffee table is small enough that Sam’s knees are pressed against Bucky’s. The sunlight filters through the blinds, shuttering over Sam’s face and illuminating his eyes to a lighter, warm brown tinted in gold.
Bucky diverts his eyes, his breath stuttering.
Sam notices this and slides over a beer can.
“Thanks for the other day, by the way,” Sam says, soft. He touches Bucky’s knee and squeezes slightly, before pulling back and continuing on with his food, as though the small touches doesn’t make Bucky’s heart hurt each time.
“It’s fine.” Bucky thinks about touching Sam’s knee in return but it’s his left hand. “Honestly - if there’s anything you need, I would do it. I - anything.”
Sam smiles, gap-toothed and beautiful, and Bucky clears his throat. “You gonna keep buying me food, Barnes? Keep looking after little old me? Keep me pampered?”
“Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky manages to mutter, gripping his fork. Things were always so easy until Sam became too casual, teasing flirtations dripping out of his mouth as easily as laughter. He did it to Steve and Natalia and even Colonel Rhodes, which was fine, it meant Bucky was a friend, just like the others. Except when it was Bucky on the receiving end, he flushed and stuttered and once choked on his food in a mixture of shock and laughter. It was different, even when Sam was like that with everyone. “Or I won’t keep coming around.”
“You mean you won’t keep drinking my juice and pinching all my snacks and messing up my DVR? God, I will miss that so much,” Sam laughs, finishing his beer in several large gulps.
“You’ll miss my face,” Bucky grins, getting up and falling back onto the couch. His stomach is full and it's warm outside and Sam is smiling up at him, eyes soft and carefree, and they’re both safe.
-
“Fuck you,” Sam hisses before he’s even reached the ground. His wings retract back and he lands heavily, almost losing his balance.
“It was tactically best,” Bucky says, quietly. Sam is almost vibrating with anger, hot with it. He takes off his wings with carefully controlled fury. “Sam.”
“ What .”
Bucky falters, stops, but Sam doesn’t. He pulls his goggles off, stashes them in a pocket on his trousers and folds himself into the car.
They’re silent as Bucky starts driving. Silent as they reach the nearest city. Silent as they pull up to the pre-arranged motel. The room is small – claustrophobic, as Sam takes the bathroom first, sweeping past Bucky without saying a word.
Bucky busies himself with sweeping the room for bugs. He works methodically through the room, checking each nook and cranny. The shower starts while he’s sweeping, finishes before he’s done. It’s another twenty minutes before Sam emerges, in his civilian clothes. He’s completely dry.
He doesn’t have the words for this. Doesn’t have the words to apologise – to say sorry, I jumped in the way of danger to push you out of the way, sorry I put you before me, sorry I made you worry, sorry I added to your guilt, sorry I couldn't protect you properly, sorry, sorry, sorry.
Except he doesn’t have the words. Sam is still quiet, staring at him from across the small motel room. He looks tired, a bone-deep exhaustion as he leans against the frame of the bathroom. Bucky’s heart feels like it’s wrangling, folding into itself. He can barely look him in the eyes. But of course, he would do it again. Why wouldn’t he? Any platitudes he could provide would just be lies.
“Why did you have to do that, you idiot,” Sam says, after several moments of Bucky staring at Sam’s bare feet, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. He moves, settles on one of the twin beds, legs crossed under him. “Stop – stop acting as though you’re – I don’t need you to save me.”
Words shrivel on Bucky’s tongue. He knows, logically, but the idea of Sam hurt when he could have stopped makes his blood chill. Thinks about what Steve told him about the dreams he has where he’s the one who rips Sam’s wings away from him, the way he can remember Sam’s face when they fought before, when he was still the Winter Soldier.
“I chose to be here. I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions. Stop treating me with kid gloves.”
The lights are dim. Bucky wants to take Sam’s face in his hands, stroke the lines out of his forehead, the down turn of his lips.
He presses a sandwich into Sam’s hands instead. It’s not an apology and Sam taking it is not forgiveness.
-
They get lunch at a small Jamaican cafe near Sam’s VA almost a month later. Sam had gone back to the VA and then taken several days off to go to New York and stay with his sister. Sam still misses Harlem sometimes, misses the familiarity of his childhood home in nostalgia. Bucky’s been on a mission in South Carolina. Their communications had been limited to a few texts and updates. It’s the longest they’ve gone silent on each other. Bucky managed to resist the itch to text Sam for forgiveness, but only just about.
When they meet for lunch, Sam seems calmer. He’s already ordered, and he talks about his sister, his niece, of the weather in New York. He doesn’t ask for an apology and Bucky doesn’t offer one. Instead, he listens to Sam’s stories, laughs at the right places and hopes that things will become normal with them again. Or as close to normal as they’ve ever been.
It’s not until they’re putting their coats on that Sam adds quickly, curtly, “I don’t want to feel like a burden. I can hold my own. Don’t do that again.”
“Sam-”
“Honestly, do it again and I’ll kick your ass. Try me if you want, old man.”
And with that, Sam is almost back to normal. Bucky goes over to his apartment again the next day with food as an offering. Sam complains about his boss, about Steve’s texting habits, about his neighbours, about Bucky. Bucky kicks him when he’s walking past and Sam shoves Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky buys him a potted hydrangea. Sam complains, claims he hates flowers, but he puts it on his windowsill anyway, next to his aloe vera plant.
-
Steve’s return is without fanfare. He’s briefly in DC for a couple of days, before he’s off again, refusing their help and instead pressing a list of addresses into his hand. His leaving leaves a hole in Bucky’s chest, the feeling that the only home he’s ever known still finds it difficult to look him in the eye.
When Steve leaves, Sam makes him dinner. Bucky is numb, watching the TV blankly. It’s not fair, is the only thing he thinks. Steve would happily save his life, would happily risk his own life for Bucky, yet here he was while Steve left once more.
Sam puts a plate in front of him, and reaches to touch Bucky’s back. He massages circles into the nape of his neck, touches his shoulder, murmurs low. It’s grounding and Bucky takes a shuddering, deep breath. His eyes are dry, prickly, and if he sheds tears, Sam is gracious enough not to say anything.
-
An hour later they’re on the second bottle of wine at the kitchen counter. Sam’s talking about a date he went on years ago, so bad he still remembers the details. Bucky is only half paying attention, his eyes fixed on Sam’s lips and his teeth and the flash of tongue. He thinks he might be tipsy and Sam is so close. So close that it only takes a single step for him to be standing next to him, shoulders touching. Sam is still talking but he looks at Bucky from under his eyelashes and - it leaves Bucky’s mind so blank that he can’t even remember what he’s meant to do at this point, in this in between space of his intentions being so clear yet his fears being so present. He puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder and then -
Then Sam is reaching for him, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.
Bucky freezes. Everything narrows into the minutiae. Sam’s hand on the side of his face, fingers spreading to the bottom of his earlobe, across his cheek. Gentle fingers. Sam’s lips at the side of his mouth. The sound of Bucky’s heart beating too loud. The gentle noise of the TV from the living room. The hum of the microwave.
Sam pulls back, but stays close. “Bucky?”
Sam’s hands move away. The microwave beeps.
It takes a second, but Sam pulls away completely. His voice sounds far away. “Bucky, hey. Hey, come on. I need you to pay attention to me. This is fine, I’m not – no expectations, yeah? There’s no expectations, I’m sorry. Stay with me”
There’s too much and suddenly, there’s not enough, not enough, Sam is too far – he reaches out, blindly, and grabs Sam. Clashes their teeth together awkwardly, and then Sam’s kissing him properly, one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, keeping him close, and the other on his waist. The book lies forgotten on the floor.
Bucky’s heart is still trapped in his throat, his fingers burning as he holds Sam’s face.
this is okay , he thinks, ignoring the tightening of his chest. It’s only when Sam pulls away does he realise that he’s been trembling.
“You still want some jam in your tea?” Sam grins. Teasing. Casual. Flirting. Everything is fine and Bucky wants to touch him. Can touch him.
So he does. Pulls him close and kisses him, again and again, and Sam lets him, hands on Bucky’s waist. Sam lets him, kisses back, mouths at Bucky’s throat.
Bucky smiles into it, letting out a shaky breath. Wonders if there will ever be a time when proximity to Sam will stop feeling like this – bodies warm against each other but still not close enough.