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Fuck sake, it’s just a piece of cloth.
Bucky’s hands, flesh and vibranium, are clutching the little 7/11 face mask that Sam picked up for him “just in case” like it’s going to bite him. He can feel the cheap fabric straining under his fingers, ready to rip apart at even the slightest flick of the wrist. But he just—
He just—
He can’t put it on.
He gets all ready, too: shoes, shirt, knife, jacket, pants, keys, knife, notebook, pen, knife, wallet, knife, phone—he has half a mind to slip a gun into his pocket before he stops himself. He’s going to the fucking grocery store. To buy groceries. Because they’re out of orange juice because Sam drinks out of the fucking carton like he was raised in a barn, which Bucky knows he wasn’t; Mrs. Wilson is the nicest lady he’s met in a long time, and watching her cook for her grandkids through the window to assess all the flaws in her current security system totally counts as meeting her, Sam. What’s Bucky gonna do, walk right up to her? There’s a pandemic going on; social distancing, Wilson, Jesus.
And really, does Bucky even need to wear the damn mask? It’s not like he can get sick. But goddamn him, Sam was right about one thing: “We’re role models now,” he’d said, as if Bucky hadn’t spent the last seventy years killing people. Yeah, little Timmy wants to grow up and be just like Bucky Barnes, sure. That’ll go over well.
Alright, Sam’s not here, so Bucky can admit it: he’s stalling. He knows he is. But he’s not going out because he has to, he’s going out because he wants to. That’s progress, right? His therapist would be so proud. So he can take his time, is the point. Any second now, he’s going to buck up, put the fucking mask on, and head out for that OJ.
Any second now.
Any—
Bucky pushes past the hammering of his own heart in his chest, loops one end of the mask around his left ear and—nothing happens. He lets it hang there for a second and just breathes. Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened; it’s a piece of cloth. He’s a soldier and an assassin, and it’s a piece of fucking cloth. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Well fuck that; Bucky has fallen enough for a couple lifetimes. He takes another breath and shakes his head, annoyed with himself. This is so stupid. Just put it on and be done with it, for God’s sake. He practically rips the front door open, but as he slips the other end of the mask around his fingers, his hands start to shake. Just put it on, dammit. Just put it on. Just put it on. Just put it on. JUST PUT IT—
The mask loops around his right ear
and
Bucky
goes
away.
* * *
The mask slots into place. Pulls tight. Hot breath ghosts across his face, his lips, his jaw. Cloth pressed flat against his mouth, rubbing at his nose, his ears, his chin, catching on the slight facial hair. His heartbeat is thunderous, blood rushing in his ears. He’s suffocating. Too tight, too tight, too tight—
And suddenly it’s gone, and he can breathe again. Cool air rushes to meet Bucky’s exposed skin. He blinks, and there’s a man standing there. Another blink. Sam. Sam is there, standing in front of him in the dark, his own mask around his neck and another mask in his hand. Bucky blinks again. Oh, not another mask; Bucky’s mask.
Sam has his hands up in front of him, empty except for that mask, and a look on his face that makes Bucky think of that time one of the Wakandans he was staying with tried to calm an injured raging bull who had already fought off a couple lions—wide-eyed and concerned, but also nervous that he himself might get gored. But Bucky isn’t a bull, and he’s not raging.
Actually, to be honest, he’s not sure what’s happening right now other than it’s cold and Sam is there, for some reason.
Bucky blinks again, and more comes back to him. The door is open—why is it dark?—and distantly he can hear a faint rattling noise. Sam never looks away from Bucky’s face, but slowly moves one hand, projecting his movements, to Bucky’s side somewhere. Bucky follows with his eyes, delayed, and it takes him a second to realize that, oh, the rattling is coming from the doorknob, which is crushed unrecognizably in his shaking vibranium hand. At Sam’s gentle touch he lets go, and the doorknob clatters to the floor in pieces.
“Bucky,” Sam says softly, now that the silence has been loudly broken, but it sounds like gunfire nonetheless. Bucky can’t find his voice. Just stares at the ruined ball of metal on the floor. “Buck?”
Bucky blinks again. Buck. Steve called him Buck. But Steve isn’t here. The only one who is here is—“Sam,” he says faintly, and looks back up into the other man’s eyes. “What happened?”
Sam’s brow furrows, and he sighs. Bucky realizes belatedly that he hadn’t said that in English. Russian, his mind supplies. He tries to ask again, but that’s not English either. Nor is it Russian again. Sam gives him a sad smile as he tries again, wracks his brain—English, goddammit, English—and finally says it right.
“I was hoping you could tell me, man,” Sam says. “I came home and you were just standing here with the door open. It’s like thirty degrees out. You trying to heat the whole neighborhood?”
The joke falls flat. “How…?” Bucky starts, but his voice fails him. How what? How long has he been standing there? How did he get like this? How did Sam bring him back?
“What do you remember?” Sam asks.
Bucky’s eyes land on the mask still in Sam’s hand. “Mask,” he says haltingly. “I was. Out. Going to. Go out. Outside.”
“Do you know when?”
Bucky closes his eyes tightly, tries to remember. “Morning,” he replies. It had been morning, right? Not even noon yet; Sam had only been gone for like an hour before Bucky decided he wanted to go out. “What time is it?”
Sam gently guides Bucky back a few steps so he can close the door. “Almost nine,” he says, pauses, then adds, “at night.”
All the air in Bucky’s lungs burst out of him like he’s been punched in the gut. Sam takes off his coat and lets it drop to the floor. In the back of his mind, Bucky is aware that he should be calling Sam out and telling him to pick up his shit, but the part of his mind that’s in control right now barely registers it.
Sam gently touches Bucky’s shoulders—grounding, grounding, grounding—and when Bucky blinks next, he finds himself on the sofa. The TV is on but the volume is so low even Bucky can barely hear it with his enhanced hearing. Sam is gone, but there’s a blanket that smells like Sam’s mom’s house around Bucky’s shoulders and his shoes are gone.
All of Bucky’s things are laid out on the coffee table, including his knives; his awareness and memory must be coming back in spurts because he has the sudden thought of how annoyed Sam probably is that he tried going out with all those blades. But when Sam rounds the corner a second later and meets Bucky’s eyes, he looks relieved rather than ready to give a lecture.
“Hey, welcome back,” Sam says gently.
“Hey,” Bucky croaks.
“So… the mask, huh?”
Oh. Yeah, Bucky supposes, that makes sense. He nods once and Sam hums.
“Did you… take it off me?” Bucky asks, still trying to piece everything together.
“Yeah,” Sam replies. “Didn’t know what you were gonna do, but I panicked. Sorry, man.”
Bucky swallows thickly. “No, no, thanks. Uh. Thanks for that.”
Sam nods, searching Bucky’s face for… something. Fuck, Bucky’s head hurts. And he feels like he’s been hit by a bus—which he actually has done, so he should know.
“You wanna talk about it?” Sam asks.
“No,” Bucky says, a little too quickly. He leans forward and rests his head in his hands. “No, God no, not now. Please.”
Maybe it’s the please, strung out of Bucky so forcefully that it almost sounded desperate, or maybe Sam’s just too tired to push the issue, but he nods and gets up, leaving Bucky with the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. He breathes—in, two, three, out, two, three—and when he feels a weight drop back down onto the sofa, he finally looks up and opens his eyes.
“It’s gonna get better,” Sam says, eyes full of optimism in a way that reminds Bucky so much of Steve that it hurts, and presses a full glass of orange juice into Bucky’s hands.