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The ticking of the clock seemed endless.
Sat in this uncomfortable plastic chair, Bucky felt as though he’d been sitting here for hours. Pacing the length of the room about one hundred times. Then he’d paced it one hundred more. Over and over, the sound of his heavy boots in time with the ticking of the clock. Bucky Barnes had never been very good at waiting.
For Sam, he’d wait forever.
On and on, the clock continued to chime. Tick, tick, tick. In time with the pulsing of the ventilator, out of sync with the steady beat of the heart monitor. The machines monitoring Sam’s vitals. Bucky’s eyes fell to the soft rise and fall of Sam’s chest, warming as he tried to match his breathing. They’d been in sync in every way that mattered, but not that day.
Sam’s eyes had closed three days ago and had yet to open, even once. The doctors said he was simply resting; his mind and body had been through a lot. They said Sam was a survivor.
Bucky hoped they were right.
He continued to pace, staring out at the dim and grey sky. It had rained for three days and three nights. Bucky hoped it wasn’t a sign.
On his last pass, he came to a stop at Sam’s side, his gaze falling to the bandages on his wrists. A freshly sharpened sword has sliced clean through his wrist guards. Bucky had been at his side in seconds, holding pressure, his heart beating damn near out of his chest. He’d been panicked, his mind erasing all knowledge of first aid in an instant at the look of pain on Sam’s face. Even so, even distracted, Bucky had caught a glimpse of Sam’s right wrist before he’d covered it.
Now, as he had then, it wasn’t the blood Bucky saw. It was the mark.
There, in plain black ink, a name.
James Buchanan Barnes.
They’d been partners in the field for two years and Sam had never told him.
Then
When Bucky was coming up, the marks were legend. Everyone had them, but you never showed them in public. It was taboo to even talk about them.
There was no pattern to it. One day, you’d simply find names etched into your skin. They appeared one at a time, simultaneously for the rare few. It was said, but never proven, that the one on your right was your enemy, the other your soulmate. A man with a woman’s name on one wrist and a man’s on the other, the dame was his bride to be. A man’s name on both meant a life no one wanted to live.
Bucky was one of those lucky few.
He’d been scrapping in the yard with a few neighborhood kids when the first name appeared. Lighting candles around the apartment in a thunderstorm when the second came. It was strange: the first was crystal clear and easy to read. The second was faint, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely. Bucky hadn’t even realized until the power came back on and his father saw it. They didn’t talk about it.
He wore cuffs until his fall from the train.
Aside from his mother, only one other person knew his soul marks. To this day, Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he’d told Steve. Maybe because he’d thought Steve would understand. After all, he wasn’t exactly popular with the other kids. Steve liked art and he was kind. He spent all of his time taking care of his mother and he didn’t think it was right that to treat anyone differently for something they couldn’t control.
One day, Steve had rolled up his sleeves and shown Bucky his marks. On the left wrist, Margaret Carter. On the right, Johann Schmidt. When he saw them, Bucky’s breath caught. He yanked off his left cuff.
Steve’s eyes widened as he traced the same name on Bucky’s wrist. He smiled, looking to him earnestly. “We were destined to be friends,” Steve had said.
It filled Bucky with something warm and maybe it was that, maybe it was just wanting to share with someone that wouldn’t look at him with disgust. Either way, Bucky had pulled off his right cuff. Steve didn’t trace the name, that was too personal. However, he didn’t draw away, the light in his eyes didn’t dim. He didn’t look at Bucky like the sight of him made him sick.
He simply nodded, looking Bucky in the eye. “You think you’ve met him yet?”
When the draft orders came down and Bucky went off to war, the marks were harder to hide.
The guys teased him about his cuffs, asking what he had to hide. A few joked his soulmate must be some German broad and he’d be “sleeping with the enemy”. A few thought Bucky was such a cad that he clearly bore the mark of some other fella’s wife. Most just assumed he was overly religious. The hardcore Catholics thought it was indecent to show your marks to anyone aside from your spouse.
None of the guys knew the truth and it was safest that way. Bucky knew all too well what happened to men with marks like his.
When he’d been younger, he hated them. He grew pissed off at his father, at the world, at God, when he’d still believed in him. It wasn’t enough that he’d lost his mother, that his sister had been sent away, that he’d later lost a father that died ashamed of him. After all of that hardship, why would God give him a soulmate he wasn’t supposed to love? It was cruel.
He spent years angry with God and later himself. He stopped looking, stopped listening for any sign that this man might have crossed paths with him. Had he been drafted alongside Bucky? Was he a commander? Was he one of the waiters at a local pub? Was he one of the messengers they came across in France or England? What did it matter? It wasn’t like they could have a real future.
Bucky pushed it to the back of his mind. He tightened his cuffs and started pretending there was nothing underneath. Slept with women every chance he got and ignored that look in Steve’s eye. Whatever was etched into his skin, it didn’t define him. And some believed there was no guarantee the name on your wrist bore your name in return. There could be some dame out there with Bucky’s name written across her wrist.
He used to dream of finding her.
Then the war, then the fall, then the cold and Bucky stopped dreaming about much of anything after that.
The years Bucky lost to the cold were mostly blank.
From time to time, he’d get flashes. A chill he felt down to his bones and freezing his blood. Shot up in bed drenched in sweat, clenching hands that still felt tacky with the squelch of blood between his fingers. Choking down water trying to chase away the taste of metal.
Once, and only once, he’d been sparring with Scott when he lost himself in a memory. Kneeling over one of his handlers, his hands squeezing tight around their throat. It had taken Sam and Peter to pull him off. Afterwards, Bucky hadn’t been able to look Scott in the eye for nearly a month.
Whatever slipped through the cracks were memories when Bucky had broken from control. Just glimpses, brief moments where his mind and body were solely his again. The longest had been one harrowing night in Denmark.
When that chilling blankness gave way into feeling.
His boot sank into an icy puddle in the snow, frigid water sinking in up to his knees and soaking his pant legs. Jarred into consciousness, his heart drumming frenzied against his ribcage. Panting, the freezing air burning his lungs as his eyes darted around the dark forest in panic. Dense trees and shadows, the sounds of batting wings in the distance. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing or why he was there.
There was a knife in his hands.
The nearby snow was speckled with dashes of red, his gloves soaked clean through. They smelled of blood.
He fell back against a tree, his panicked breathing loud in his ears. Dark spots marring his vision as he tried to force himself to calm. Tried to force himself to focus on the last thing he remembered. It came back in flashes.
All at once, he knew what he was.
A ghost. A phantom. A horror story told to Russian children as something to fear. A killer. A monster.
Bile rose in his throat, his head falling back as he gazed at the trees overhead. He knew what his father would do. Knew what Steve would’ve had to do if he was still alive, if he’d ever lived long enough to find out what Bucky had become. Bucky was a living weapon; he’d served Hydra. How many had he killed? How many lives had he ruined?
It tore at his chest, his heart breaking apart beneath his rib cage. Eyes burning as he stared down at the bloodstained snow until his vision blurred. His breath came out in harsh pants, his knees giving out as the cold chilled his bones, hollowing out his insides. Shakily, he dropped the knife, tearing at his gloves. Swallowing thickly, his gaze settled on a familiar mark.
His eyes spilled over, fingers tracing over the curving letters.
The faint letters were clearer now, as if the name had fought to be there. No matter how much Bucky had cursed it, how much he’d tried to will it away. No matter how many times he’d kneeled on his bedroom floor and prayed for it to go away, it had only burrowed its way deeper into his skin.
He’d cursed it, he’d hated it… and now he cherished it.
Somebody out there still loved him.
Everything he’d done, all the lives he’d taken, there was somebody out there that loved him. There was somebody who still could.
Shaking, shivering in the snow, tears streaming down his face as he traced the letters over and over until the lights of the helicopter found him.
It had been theorized and romanticized in more movies than even Bucky could’ve watched in his lifetime: meeting your soulmate was supposed to be earth shatteringly beautiful. The world would stop, all sound would drop out and all color would be stolen by the irises in their eyes or something to that effect. Everyone Bucky had ever known thought it would be amazing.
Impossible to miss.
Bucky met Sam when he ripped the steering wheel out of his car. Perched on top of a moving vehicle on a busy freeway trying to kill the inhabitants of the car carrying his next target. He paid the redhead and the pilot no mind, focused on the man with the shield. Sam wasn’t even an afterthought.
The next time they met, Bucky ripped Sam’s left wing from his rig and shoved a boot into his chest.
It wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t glamorous and the world didn’t stop.
But Sam, Steve and Nat had kept it from ending.
The next time they met, that Bucky remembered, his arm was wedged in a machine in an abandoned warehouse.
Sam kept his distance, watching him closely as he spoke quietly to Steve. It was clear that he didn’t trust Bucky, but they needed his help anyway. He found himself running alongside Sam in an airport being chased by a teenage “superhero”. They’d been in sync, even the timing of his breathing in line with Sam’s. In truth, it wasn’t the fight or what came later that Bucky remembered the most.
It was the way he’d instinctively leapt in front of Sam to protect him. Without a single thought. There had never been a point in all of his life where he’d been so sure of what he was doing and why he was doing it.
Their first meeting had been a disaster and it was no secret that Sam Wilson didn’t think that fondly of Bucky Barnes. Even so, even knowing that, Bucky was drawn to him anyway. Everything with Sam just seemed effortless.
It figured that the next time they saw each other, it was on a battlefield.
This time, Bucky knew even less about what they were doing and who their enemy was. Something about aliens, the state of the galaxy and the end of the world. It was no simple battle; Bucky had been drawn into a war. Even worse, he found himself angry with the team for dragging Sam into yet another fight that seemed unwinnable.
Before, Bucky had been thinking about the future.
For the first time in decades, he thought he might have one. With Shuri’s help, he’d started to feel safer in his head. As though he had some handle on control and, if that was true, did that mean that maybe he didn’t have to hide himself away for the rest of his life? Was he more than just a soldier?
Then Thanos’ army came and Sam was by his side until he wasn’t. When everything started turning to dust, Bucky found him just in time to watch him disappear.
When he followed, he was almost relieved.
The Avengers put the world back, even as the team had fragmented.
Losing Stark, Romanoff and later Steve, the team just fell apart. Thor headed off to space with the Guardians, Banner decided to give life with Betty Ross another try and Clint had a family to take care of. Sam had been given the shield which meant he’d take over as Captain America.
Most days, Bucky resented Steve for that.
It wasn’t the shield – he’d never wanted it. He’d somehow stumbled into two wars he’d never wanted to be a part of, he’d never willingly sign on to throw on some tights and start more fights. No, he didn’t want the title, all the responsibility and the scrutiny that came with it. Bucky resented that Steve gave Sam the shield because Steve had known damn well that Sam would take it. He’d never retire.
Which meant Bucky couldn’t retire.
Life moved on – others stepped up to fill the roster for the New Avengers. Scott and Hope settled on the east coast, at least for the time being. Bruce’s cousin Jennifer Walters joined as She Hulk. New York’s angriest hero Jessica Jones joined along with Luke Cage and Danny Rand. The spider kid technically joined but, as far as Bucky was concerned, he was an intern. They had a team but they weren’t exactly in sync. Not yet.
Bucky certainly couldn’t trust them to look after Sam. They could hardly take care of themselves. All of them were used to working alone and in all of the chaos that came after “the Blip”, there was no telling what kind of enemies were out there and even more pissed off at having missed five years of their lives. There was no way of telling what fights Sam would find himself involved in.
So, Bucky reluctantly joined the team. Sam was happy to have him.
That fact alone made all the difference.
Now
Bucky helped Sam home when he was released from the hospital.
He would be unsteady on his feet for about two weeks or so, they’d said. Knowing Sam, the warnings wouldn’t stop him from pushing himself in the meantime. Still, Bucky had assured them he’d make sure Sam took it easy. Sam had fondly rolled his eyes. A week ago, the sight would’ve warmed Bucky to his core. Now, he shoved it down until he was numb.
He unlocked the door to their apartment. Sam’s arm tightened around his shoulder as they moved through the front door. Stumbling a bit, they bumped into the door with a quiet thud.
“Shit, sorry, man,” Sam said.
With a shake of the head, Bucky steadied Sam easily, his arm wrapped around his waist. Sam smelled of hospital; Bucky hated that. Hated it even more that he hadn’t been quick enough to pull Sam out of the line of fire.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you to your room.”
Once inside, he pulled the covers back and gently helped Sam slide down beneath them. Lying back, Sam grimaced as he carefully touched his ribs. His bandaged wrists came into view and Bucky’s stomach twisted.
Turning away, he announced, “I’ll just get started on dinner.”
“Now? It’s barely four o’clock.” His tone was light but Bucky could hear the concern.
He ignored it. “You need your rest.”
He’d barely left the room when Sam called out, “Okay, come back here.” A beat. “Don’t make me chase after you.”
Knowing Sam, he’d really try. Bucky returned mutedly, hovering just outside. Sam stared at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on with you, man? You can barely look at me.”
Bucky rubbed at his face. “I’m just tired. I was worried about you.”
“You always worry about me,” he said, his voice softening. “It’s one of the most annoying things about you.”
It was a joke; Bucky knew that. Even so, it didn’t stop the sickening twist in his stomach. “Well, that’s it. That’s what’s bothering me.”
“No, it’s not. This isn’t the first close call I’ve had. You used to joke around with me. When you were done scolding me,” he added with a weak curl of a smile.
“Maybe I stopped thinking this was something to joke about.” At Sam’s eye roll, Bucky’s temper flared. “I nearly lost you, Sam,” he said, his voice growing louder.
“You knew the risks. It’s part of the job.” As always, his voice was steady, calm and logical where Bucky’s grew louder and angry. It just frustrated Bucky more. Sam’s mouth twisted. Then, “Just come out with it.”
“You didn’t have to go out there alone. We’re a team.” He crossed his arms, a stiffness in his bones. “I don’t give a shit if you don’t tell the others, but you always tell me.”
“I thought it was something small.”
“It’s never anything small,” Bucky spat. You didn’t trust me.
“I know that now. I didn’t know it then.” At Bucky’s shake of the head, he muttered, “You didn’t have to follow me.”
Bucky stilled, ice in his blood. His heart wrenched in his chest, stealing his breath and whatever resolve he had left. “You know I did,” he rasped.
Everything slowed and just for a moment, for a split second, Bucky caught a glimpse of recognition in Sam’s eye. All at once, Bucky’s breath caught as he realized that Sam understood. That he finally knew why Bucky had stayed for this long, why he’d fought so hard to stay by his side. As if he knew what name was scrawled across Bucky’s wrist without ever having seen it.
It was terrifying. Almost more than knowing what was on Sam’s wrist.
He had to go.
Blinking away the burn in his eyes, he turned away. “I’ll just make dinner and—”
“Bucky,” Sam tried.
“I’ll be out of your hair.”
The words gave Sam pause. “What do you mean?”
A tear rolled down Bucky’s cheek, his voice brittle. “Sam, come on,” he pleaded weakly.
“No, what do you mean? You’re leaving?” At Bucky’s silence, the mattress shifted. Bucky turned around to see Sam trying to leave the bed, even as his body protested. “You can’t just leave.”
Bucky’s hands ached to help but he forced himself still. “I’ve already let Scott and Hope know. They’ll be by to help.”
“I don’t want them here.” His eyes gleamed, his voice soft. “This is our home.”
Bucky lowered his head, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “You can’t honestly be asking me to stay.” He let out a slow breath, the cold creeping in. “I saw your wrist, Sam.”
It was silent, save for the sound of Sam’s quickening breath. When he looked up, Sam was staring at him, frozen in place. “I’m your enemy. It doesn’t matter what I do, how I feel,” he let out a shaky breath. “I can’t change that.”
Acceptance, surprise, maybe even an arbitrary protest, those were reactions Bucky expected. It was the confusion he didn’t understand. Sam’s shock had melded into shame and pain, turned inward.
His head lowered, lashes fluttering over his cheeks as he reached for his left wrist, wrapped in bandages. Nodding, his lip caught between his teeth as he pulled as the fastening, unraveling the gauze.
“Sam,” Bucky chided, moving forward helplessly as Sam unraveled the left and started on the right. Baffled, Bucky stood at his bedside watching as Sam’s bare wrists came into view. As if it weren’t bad enough for Bucky to know he was Sam’s enemy. It was too soon to learn who’d stolen his heart.
It was too late, Sam had turned his wrists up, his face blank. When Bucky brought himself to read them, everything went still. It was as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room. His heart beat loud in his ears, his entire world narrowed down to the names etched into Sam’s skin.
They were the same.
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” he whispered, sinking down on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t’ tear his eyes away from them.
“I didn’t either,” Sam said, looking to him openly. “It’s rare. Usually, it doesn’t mean anything good. Some situation where someone got involved with entirely the wrong person. But, with you…” He shook his head. “When I met Steve and we found out what we were up against in the streets, it started to make sense.”
Bucky finally met Sam’s gaze as he continued on. “My father was a pastor. When the marks came in, my parents covered them. I grew up being told that if I prayed hard enough, they would change.”
The words tore at something fragile in Bucky’s chest. “They believed that?”
Sam averted his gaze. “It’s never been proven.” He huffed out a laugh, touching one of the marks carefully, the sight pulling at Bucky’s heart. “I used to think it just meant that you loved me a lot.”
A warmth flooded Bucky’s chest as he watched Sam trace the letters. When Sam looked to him again, his eyes were firm. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how to feel about it. We didn’t exactly meet under the best circumstances.”
Bucky held his gaze, his expression unreadable. “How do you feel now?”
Sam hesitated, trying a few times before he offered a sad smile. “I don’t know.” Bucky nodded, making to stand and Sam reached out. “I’m not scared of you. I know that.”
The words weren’t much of a comfort. “I’ve got to get started on dinner.”
“Buck,” Sam called out.
Bucky didn’t leave, though he knew he should.
Aside from the packed bag shoved in the bottom of his closet, Bucky had taken no steps towards leaving.
When he’d first moved in, he’d kept all of his belongings in a duffle bag. He’d kept it ready just in case Sam came to his senses and asked him to leave. In case there was an emergency or one of his old enemies found their home. Over time, he’d slacked on packing it up every night. He’d started to collect more things. Now, he had winter clothes in the closet, pictures of himself with Sam, Cassie Lang and Kate Bishop around the apartment, “his” ice cream in the freezer. He had a life here. It would be difficult to leave.
But, for Sam, he’d do it.
That night, Bucky hadn’t known what to think or how to feel. Or if he was even allowed. A part of him had been ecstatic, overjoyed and all the other flowery things he was supposed to feel. Sam was his soulmate, that was Bucky’s name on his left wrist. Of all of the people in the universe, it was Bucky he was meant to be with.
And of all the people in the universe, Bucky was destined to hurt him.
So, it didn’t really matter how Bucky felt. It didn’t matter that being around Sam made him feel safe and complete. It didn’t matter that Sam made his heart beat faster and his tongue tied in knots when he tried to speak. It didn’t matter that no one had ever set his body on fire with a simple grin and a look. If it was a choice between Sam’s safety and Bucky’s happiness, it wasn’t a choice at all.
Bucky would have to leave.
Unfortunately, Sam wasn’t making that easy for him.
The stubborn jerk refused to let Scott and Hope take over helping him get around the apartment. Plus, they weren’t equipped enough to know when “I can do it” actually meant “I can’t, but I’m going to force myself to do it”. Meaning, Bucky had to stick around because he was the only one fluent in Sam.
It meant being around to help Sam in and out of the shower. It meant getting those soft little smiles after fond teasing. It meant seeing the light in his eyes when he actually said something nice and meant it. Those little signs that Bucky had never known to look for before. All things that would’ve made him feel on top of the world before he’d seen his name on Sam’s wrist.
Instead, Bucky forced whatever warmth he felt deep, deep down where no light could reach. He vowed to stay just long enough for Sam to be well again.
On this night, Bucky set a plate of spaghetti and meatballs down on the table. Sam watched as he started some of the clean up and put a skillet in the sink to soak. He watched as Bucky made his own plate and poured them glasses of water. He was still watching as Bucky sat down and it was starting to worry him. Sam only ever stared when he wanted to talk.
Bucky pushed his food around his plate, dreading whatever was coming next. Finally, “I can’t keep doing this.” Bucky looked to him mutedly, his response sticking in his throat. Sam’s eyes were bright, gleaming in the light. “I can’t keep waking up every morning wondering if you’ll still be here.”
“I told you, I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
“Then you won’t be leaving.”
Bucky covered his face, leaning back in his chair. “Sam,” he began, his voice rough at the edges. “We talked about this.”
“I don’t care what the marks say. I want you here.”
“You may not care, but I do.” He shook his head, resting his hands on the edge of the table. “I used to think they were bullshit, but I know better now. I could be the death of you.” Sam’s face hardened. “We don’t know how my head works. What if Shuri wasn’t able to fix everything? What if there’s someone out there who knows how to take control of me again? The longer I stay here, the more of a danger I become to you.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“My name is on your wrist and I’ve nearly killed you twice since we’ve met. It doesn’t matter what you believe.” He pushed away from the table.
Even healing up, Sam was faster than Bucky expected. Darting across the table, he snagged Bucky’s wrist. His fingers brushed the inside of Bucky’s wrist, inciting a shiver as he tugged at the ties on Bucky’s vintage leather cuffs. Bucky would have pulled away but something kept him there. Maybe it was the knowledge that none of this really mattered.
Hydra had already stolen so many things from him. What was one more?
When the curved letters came into view, Sam’s face only hardened. His fingers traced over the name.
Samuel Thomas Wilson.
“It’s unlikely,” he murmured, glancing up at Bucky briefly. His fingers looped over the letters over and over again, burying them further into Bucky’s skin. “When you consider everything that had to happen for you to end up here. For us to even meet in the first place.”
With every brush of his skin, Bucky shivered, focusing on Sam’s hands. On his bare wrists. He hadn’t covered them since that night. There were no more secrets between them.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam asked. He didn’t sound angry.
“What good would it have done?” Sam’s eyes cut to his, wide with shock. “Sam, you deserve so much more than anything I could give. I still can’t believe you let me stay here. That you trust me at all.”
The words came easy, but they didn’t appear to give Sam any comfort. He held Bucky’s gaze for a long while, his mouth twisted in displeasure. Then he returned to his name inked into Bucky’s skin. Every brush of his fingers worsened the vice around Bucky’s heart.
“I stopped praying for my marks to change when I was fifteen. It was almost comforting to know that there was someone out there that wouldn’t care that I was different. Someone who wouldn’t think I was going to hell just for loving someone.” His voice softened, “And I figured, if God created everything, he must’ve wanted it this way.”
His gaze met Bucky’s as he leaned over, eyes falling closed as he pressed his lips softly to the mark. A knot lodged in Bucky’s throat as Sam tugged him in closer. He could feel the place where Sam’s lips had touched his skin, a nervous flutter in his stomach.
“You can’t just take the bad. That’s not fair,” Sam said, reaching out to gently touch Bucky’s cheek. “Billions of people in the universe and you were made for me.”
“Sam,” he tried, his voice giving out. Shivering, a tear rolled down his cheek as Sam’s thumb traced carefully over his cheek. He clenched his eyes shut, rasping, “I could really hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Sam softly replied, smoothing his thumbs of Bucky’s cheeks as his eyes spilled over.
He opened his eyes to find Sam staring back at him, his eyes soft. He leaned in as Bucky’s heart beat fast in his chest. “Sam,” he breathed, every pass of Sam’s fingers on his face left him weak in the knees.
“You won’t,” Sam murmured, his warm breath misting over Bucky’s lips. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut as Sam neared.
His hand found Sam’s shirt, but he’s not pushing him away, he’s pulling him in. Crushing their mouths together in a way that’s anything but gentle. Sam pressed in closer, his body a line of heat against Bucky’s front as Bucky’s fingers twisted in his shirt, holding fast. It was maddening, soft and wet and warm and desperate. Helpless to chase more of those soft little sounds Sam was making deep in his throat. Feeling Sam shiver and shake, melting into him.
Sam’s hand pushed softly at his chest and it was like a shot of ice in his veins. He veered back, would’ve gone further if Sam hadn’t caught his wrist. His eyes shot open to find Sam offering him a soft smile.
“Just needed air, that’s all,” he panted, smile widening. Bucky nodded, covering Sam’s hand with his own. Sam’s fingers spread out over Bucky’s chest as he murmured, “You can’t just take the bad.”
His eyes were soft but firm. Sure, in that way Sam always was.
In the time they’d known each other, Bucky had never known him to be wrong.