Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He remembers the warmth of Wakanda, the damp humidity that was never cloying but sat like a thin blanket on the fields and hills. The serenity he's not felt anywhere else, save for the few dreams he still has left to him. 

He remembers Shuri and her late nights, thanking him when it should have been the other way around, crafting this beautiful tool in place of a scarred weapon. Their King, always open in his greetings, seeming to delight in visiting him and checking on his progress. The buzz of technology in the many rooms, the cool tile and large open windows. Wakanda was a beacon of growth, of authentic change mitigated by genuine people.

This one might be tired of war.

Ayo places a few well-timed jabs, and just like that, he's reminded that this body was never really his. 

The arm hits the ground with a thud that rings loudly in the room, and Bucky can only stare, stomach in his throat and betrayal burning like acid in his gut. Ayo gazes at him, unapologetic, before walking away. 

He takes too long to stoop and pick it up, this extension of him, this gift so graciously given. They had a failsafe, too. Everyone does. 

(Does Sam? Does he expect him to turn on a dime, to swing on him like the weapon he's been so brutally forged into? They said they had faith, they knew the words and trusted him enough to use them anyway, they had faith that he was out but they built in a failsafe anyway-)

Sam speaks, but Bucky barely hears him, just answers the question he knows he's been asked, thoughts thousands of miles away. 

Later - 

After Karli escapes, a child with fear in her eyes as a man turns with a promise of death in his, and they run to the plaza to see the shield being used as a weapon that it was never meant to be - 

After John Walker murdered a man with a symbol that’s long been associated with peace and protection, blood smeared along the rim as it’s held for all the world to see - 

Later. 

Bucky stares at the night sky, furious with Zemo, with Walker, with himself. 

He thinks he gets, finally, what Sam has been trying to tell him all along. And it wasn’t the systemic racism, or his own intimate familiarity with the lack of free will - it was seeing a symbol he’s associated with Steve for as long as he’s had his senses about him, and seeing it finally represent America for what it truly is. 

Idealistic. He’s surprised Sam hasn’t laughed at him yet. 

He wants to tell him so, spill his guts and make sure Sam knows he’s at least seen some of his mistakes - he’s not fool enough to think himself self-aware enough to see all his faults - but his thoughts are buzzing, disconnected. 

He knows why. He knows why he feels this way, just as he knows why Ayo did what she did. The arm was a gift, after all, and she was reminding him that gifts can be taken away. It would have been her rights to take that vibranium and bring it back to her country, to reforge it into something more useful, something serving its origin. In that moment, he became a hindrance, a liability. 

Doesn’t ease the burn, but at least he understands. 

(Why was he even fighting her? He doesn’t know. Why bother giving him autonomy when he himself doesn’t understand the choices he’s making?)

“Hey man, you hungry?”

Bucky jumps, a twitch in his shoulders that betrays just how sucked into his thoughts he was. If Sam notices, he doesn’t say. “Yeah,” Bucky says after too long a pause, trying to school his expression into one of neutrality, “sure.” 

At that, Sam looks dubious, but doesn’t appear to want to push. But then he lingers in the doorway for too long, and Bucky opens his mouth to say something snide, to get him off his scent, but Sam beats him to the punch. 

“You really didn’t know the arm had that failsafe?”

Bucky sighs. His VA senses must have been tingling. 

“No, Sam,” he says, intending to sound anything like he feels: wrung out. He misses the mark, judging by Sam’s expression. 

They sit in silence for another beat. Bucky suddenly can’t handle the quiet, the judgement that he feels blooms within it. “It makes sense,” he says, glancing away from Sam’s gaze. “When they knew me, I still had the words. They didn’t know for sure they’d be able to get them out. Would have been stupid of them not to.” 

“Sure,” Sam agrees easily. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

Bucky’s hackles don’t lower. 

“But you weren’t a threat today.” 

What breath remains in his lungs comes out on a raspy exhale. “Yeah, well. She wanted to remind me whose arm it really is, I guess.” It doesn’t come out as bitter as it could, because he knows it’s the truth. “I’m lucky she didn’t take it.” 

“She could have, yeah. But Wakandans aren’t the type to take back gifts they’ve given to those that deserve to still have them. That’s my impression, anyway.” 

Bucky purses his lips and turns away, wanting Sam to do the same. Ever the contrarian, he instead joins him fully on the balcony, leaving the door behind him noticeably open. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed, and Bucky relaxes a bit, reminded that Sam well and truly does want to help. Bucky’s just not ready for the minefield that lies between them. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

It’s bullshit. 

“Man, that’s bullshit.” 

Bucky shrugs. 

Sam doesn’t touch him, but does step closer into his space when he doesn’t turn his way. “I know I don’t understand what you’re working through,” Sam starts, and his tone is pleasantly frank; there’s no soft words, no walking on eggshells. “Cause I don’t know much about you besides what’s in your file, and what Steve’s told me. But I know you gotta have some issues with body autonomy.” 

Bucky raises a brow and turns to him then, almost daring him to continue. Someone else unboxing his baggage has never exactly been an appealing thought. Nevertheless, he persists. 

“So I can imagine another reminder of being out of control of your own body might not feel so nice.” 

“You know what makes me feel nice? You unpacking all of my trauma. It’s great, Sam. Thanks.” 

“Hell, someone has to. We still haven’t dealt with what went down in Madripoor, man.” 

“There’s nothing to deal with!” And okay, maybe that was a little louder than he’s meant, his nerves frayed and his patience wearing thin. How hard it is to just find a quiet corner to lick his own wounds in peace? 

Apparently, impossible around Sam Goddamn Wilson. “Oh yeah, cause you really sound like you’re coping.” Sam throws his hands up, looking as frustrated as he sounds. “Seriously, Buck, we’re neck deep in a lot of shit. Bottling isn’t coping, and we really don’t want it exploding in our faces in the middle of some-”

“Oh, so you just want to fix me for the sake of the mission-” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth-”

“I don’t know how to FIX this, Sam! Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, something like this happens. All I wanted was to be left alone, but I couldn’t just sit and rot when I could be doing something, and yeah, finding out that people that I thought trusted me are comfortable still holding me at arms length sucked. I can’t just cope with that.” 

Sam’s watching Bucky with something like surprise flavored with something else he can’t pinpoint. Maybe that’s because his insides feel like snakes, trying to slither their way out of his mouth, pulling along all the blackness that’s still festering in him. He wants to drop to the ground and scream, tell Sam that he feels like a wound barely scabbed over. He’s not healing, he’s just making himself more palatable so he can be of use. 

“No one says you gotta be fixed, Bucky. Not broken. But processing and working through shit is the first step to at least feeling a little better. One day at a time, right?” 

It’s now that Sam chooses to set his hand on Bucky’s arm, the elbow of the left arm, and Bucky glances down at it. Sam just quirks a brow and leaves it there, unimpressed. 

“We’re going through it. I get that. And even though Dr. Raynor is a shit therapist, she’s not wrong in wanting you to talk it out.” 

Why does he have to be so reasonable all the time? “I don’t want you to be my therapist,” Bucky says. 

“Gee, thanks.” 

“No, I mean-” and here Bucky huffs, because Sam wants him to talk, but he still feels like shit from all the shit they’re in, and yeah, Ayo hurt him, he’s allowed to have feelings, he gets it. “You don’t have to be.” 

Sam’s petulant expression eases. “Because we’re friends?” His tone goes teasing, and Bucky sees the charming gap between his front teeth. 

“Don’t push it.” 

"C'mon, man. I wasn't lying before. Grub's on." 

Sam leaves the balcony with a smile that somehow doesn't feel patronizing, and Bucky waits a minute to collect his swirling thoughts before following him inside. 

Chapter Text

He sleeps like shit, because of course he does.

The myriad of memories assault him in no particular order, events blurring into one long hellish dream. There are hands on him, manipulating his intentions and controlling each breath he takes, deciding if he’s worthy to live through the next day, minute, hour. He sees Tony’s mother, face a ruin against the dashboard, he sees Jack Monroe bleeding out in the trunk of his own car, a young president through the scope of his rifle. The hands of scientists, pushing him back into the chair, pushing needles into his deep muscle tissue, pushing a tooth guard past chapped lips. The hands of Zemo, on his shoulders, in his hair, on his face, lips pressed against his ear, words a cruel whisper as he loses himself again.

Bucky shakes himself awake on a wet gasp, phantom hands still petting his face, clawing into him, and the sheet that’s covering him turns constrictive and he jerks and twists to try and get it off, but Jesus it won’t let go, and his breath comes in quicker of its own accord, and he knows there’s going to be a fist in his hair telling him to -

“Yo, what-”

Bucky jumps, and kicks at the sheet so hard his shin slams into the side table, knocking the lamp off with a loud clatter. The light turns on as the porcelain shatters, and Bucky flinches so hard he feels something twinge in his shoulder.

“Okay, alright,” Sam is saying, and Bucky manages to hear him over the sound of his breaths sawing out of him, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he adjusts to the change.

Five things he can see: the ugly yellow couch, the wooden door frame Sam’s got a hand braced on, a painting of a flower field on the wall, the granite countertop, and Sam, shirtless and rumpled and concerned.

Four things he can feel: the cool wood beneath his thigh, the sheet still wrapped around his fucking legs -

“Bucky, hey, man,” and Sam is in his personal space now, kneeling on the floor, and Bucky jerks back, hand landing on a shard of lamp. “I need to you relax, you’re gonna hurt yourself, come on,” Sam murmurs, voice calm and slow, and he’s not touching him but he’s close, too close, and the noise that comes out of Bucky’s throat would be embarrassing if he was anywhere near aware enough to hear it.

He shifts backwards again, heels sliding as he tries to get traction, and as he presses his palm down to try and move, a shock of pain has him gasping. All at once his haywire thoughts screech to a halt, focusing on the sharp throb in his hand, his flesh and blood hand, and Sam’s face comes into full view.

“You with me now?”

Bucky breathes through his mouth, and nods.

“Yeah, that’s a lie. C’mon tough guy, lemme see your hand.” Sam’s still not touching him, hand outstretched, and it’s a request, not a demand. Bucky stares at it, before shifting his weight so he can set his now freely bleeding hand in Sam’s palm, legs still wrapped in the sheet. He closes his eyes and focuses on Sam’s hands on his, prising the gash in his hand open to find any shards inside. It’s grounding in a way pain has always been, but it makes the memory of the dream come back to life, a flame urged out of simmering coals, and he clenches his teeth.

“You’re shaking, man,” Sam says, low, as if Bucky needs anything else to be ashamed of. “I’m sorry it hurts, but I gotta make sure nothin’s in there.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, opening his eyes. It’s the same room he fell asleep in. Three things he can hear: the ticking of the clock on the wall, the whirr of the air conditioning, and Sam’s voice.

“You know, this one time, me and my sister were rough-housing. You know, as kids do. And she tripped over the leg of one of our barstools and wham, right into the coffee table. She still has the scar on the bottom of her chin if you know where to look. I felt so damn bad I cried harder than she did. Had to get stitches and everything. Girl’s lucky all she knocked out was her baby teeth.”

By the time he’s done talking, he’s apparently done inspecting the gash on Bucky’s palm and has graduated to running his index finger along each of Bucky’s. Two things he can smell: the faint odor of the thai food they’d had for dinner, and Sam’s deodorant.

“C’mon, Buck. Let’s get this cleaned up.”

Removing the sheet from around his legs seems impossible, but Sam doesn’t give Bucky a chance to feel too much self-loathing about the issue. He just leans to the side and grabs at it, letting Bucky move his legs along with the hands that manipulate the sheet until he’s free. He sits there, and Sam stands up, waiting until he hauls himself off the floor. The whole thing feels too slow, like it’s happening at half speed. He’s felt this before; the come down from a panic always leaves him empty. A coping mechanism, he’s been told. Every breath he takes is easier, though he still feels foolish.

When he gets to the bathroom, Sam’s already pulling a small pad of gauze from a big box of band-aids. “I got it from here, you can go back to sleep,” Bucky tries, mostly to break the quiet.

The look Sam gives him is wildly unimpressed. Bucky sighs, and resigns himself to being doted on.

“Look, I - oww.” Sam dumps what feels like a gallon of hydrogen peroxide on his hand, looking not very apologetic about it.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear what excuses you were trying to come up with over the sound of your whining.”

“Can you stop being awful for five seconds so I can apologize?”

“Nah, not gonna happen. Cause I got a feeling what you’re trying to apologize for is not, in fact, something you should be apologizing for.”

Irritation sparks in his chest, and Bucky huffs, feeling wrung out but strangely wired at the same time. But the words don’t come, and he blinks mulishly down at the sink, watching his sudsy blood circle the drain.

“Here’s what is gonna happen,” Sam says after he’s blotted at his palm with the gauze. “I’m gonna finish cleaning your hand, then we’re gonna make some coffee or tea, or whatever the hell is sitting around, and if you want to, you can tell me what’s been bothering you.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

Sam looks like he expects it, but he still looks annoyed about it. “Then we’re gonna call Dr. Raynor at whatever-the-fuck-o’clock it is and wake her ass up, and you can tell her what’s been bothering you. But you can’t just stew on this one, man. It’s eating you up.”

Bucky wants to argue, but the feeling of panic makes a resurgence, trapped in a way that quickens his breathing without his permission. Sam finishes patting at his hand, then looks up at him, and his eyes go a little wide. Bucky doesn’t know what he sees, but he’s tired of people looking at him like that. He’s just tired. “I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do,” Sam says quietly, letting Bucky’s hand go. Bucky clenches it without knowing why, the pain instant and familiar. “You had my back in Madripoor. I wanna have yours now.”

The way Sam sounds so damn genuine knocks something loose in him, and before he realizes what he’s agreeing to he’s nodding, shoulders falling in what feels weirdly like defeat. Without looking at Sam he walks out of the bathroom and into the main suite, sitting at the bartop and resting his elbows on it, face in his hands. He lets his eyes fall shut, trying to bring his cluster of thoughts together into a less broken compilation of a man. Soon there’s the sound of water boiling, and Sam rifling through cupboards until he finds whatever he’s looking for.

The cup that’s set in front of him smells floral, and Bucky opens his eyes to an amber liquid in a plain mug. “Herbal, in case we wanna try that sleeping thing again.” Sam’s still in the kitchen, across the bartop from Bucky with his forearms resting on the granite top.

Bucky doesn’t miss the ‘we’.

One thing he can taste: honey, with what might be rose and mint. It’s too hot to do more than sip on, but Bucky takes several before looking at Sam. Sam, who’s got his own mug in one hand, and his chin in the other.

Bucky breaks the silence. “You were right, before.”

Sam raises a brow but doesn’t interrupt. Bucky elaborates when he knows Sam’s not gonna fire off some snide remark. “You knew he was gonna get to me, but I thought I could - I don’t know. Be better, I guess. Get over it. But I guess I can’t.”

He looks down at his tea, at the specks of leaves that escaped the bag. When Bucky makes it clear that he’s not planning on elaborating, Sam speaks. “Like I said before. I’m not gonna pretend I understand what’s going on up there.” He points at Bucky’s head with his index finger before wrapping it again around the mug handle. “But you should probably be cutting yourself some slack.”

“The words are gone, Sam. I know that. I’m not gonna lose myself, especially not to him.” The not again is unspoken. Bucky’s stomach roils, and he takes another sip of tea, too big a mouthful just to feel it burn.

“We all got triggers, man. Some are subtle. Some aren’t. Pretty sure you being forced to take on a role you’ve been trying to move past for a few years is a pretty big trigger. No one just ‘gets over’ that.”

Zemo’s hand touches his chin. He will do whatever you want.

Bucky scowls down at the tea.

“Like I said. You were right.”

Sam sets his mug down. “About what?”

Bucky gnashes his teeth, prison bars against the words fighting to break loose. “You know what.”

“Yeah, I do, but I want you to say it.”

“God, Sam, you’re so -” and his hand comes up to rake harshly through his hair, shorter than it’s been in seventy years. “I was done with the fight, but got pulled back in. And then I told myself I’d never be under anyone’s thumb again, that if I was gonna fight it would be on my terms. But the first chance I get, I let someone control me. Is it because some fucked up part of my brain misses it? And if that’s the case what does that say about me, huh?”

Sam moves like he’s gonna reach out for him, and Bucky jerks back before forcing himself to still. He looks apologetic, but still keeps reaching toward Bucky until his hand rests on the forearm of his vibranium arm, a warm point of contact. Bucky looks down at his hand, at a loss.

“First time I met you, you ripped a steering wheel clean out of a car. One second I’m driving, next there’s a hole in the roof.” Bucky makes a face, and Sam honest-to-god smirks at him, as if Bucky’s not mortified that he almost killed the man six times in less than twelve hours. “Different arm, different person. Couple of days ago, I saw you get your ass handed to you by three super soldiers. Not because they were stronger than you, but because you check yourself. I’ve barely seen you use this thing since we’ve been on this case, and I gotta tell you, I’ve been thinking that’s a waste of resources.

“That tells me way more about you than what I saw in the bar in Madripoor. You’re mission driven, and you saw the quickest way to get what we needed. I didn’t agree with your decision, and I still don’t think I do, only because of what’s goin’ on right now.” Sam squeezes his forearm, and the breath that Bucky takes is infuriatingly wet. He can’t look away from Sam.

“Zemo needs to rot in prison for what he did to King T’Chaka, and what he did to you, that ain’t up for debate. And once we’re done here, that’s what he’s gonna go right back to doing. He’s not gonna touch you again.”

Bucky has to blink down at his rapidly cooling tea, face hot and eyes swollen. “Thought you said you didn’t wanna be my therapist.”

“Technically, you said that,” Sam says, ever the pragmatist. “I just want my partner to get a full night’s sleep once a week.”

Bucky feels something flop in his chest, and he doesn’t trust his face to not do something stupid, so he says to his tea, “well maybe I want my partner to not get shot in the face by some radicalized teenager.”

“Believe me, you and I have that in common.”

Letting a long breath out through his mouth, Bucky taps his fingers in a staccato on the counter and leans back, shifting his gaze to the ceiling before feeling steady enough to look Sam’s way. They make eye contact and hold it, and for once Bucky doesn’t feel the need to shutter away whatever emotions are showing through. “I’m in your corner, Buck. You get low, you can come to me. I’m not gonna twist your arm, but I’m also not willing to leave you to spiral. You hearin’ me?”

Bucky brings his thumb and forefinger to the inner corner of his eyes.

“I’m hearin’ you.”

Sam’s shoulders ease, and he pats the arm one more time before leaning back out of Bucky’s personal space. “Good man. Now finish your tea, and get some shut-eye. Please.”

The gesture is kind, but Bucky still feels a little rubbed raw, so he counters with “not the boss of me,” as Sam turns. He doesn’t miss the snort of laughter as Sam walks out of the kitchen and to his room, giving a wave over his shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t actually get much more sleep that night, though if pressed he’d have to admit he doesn’t try very hard. After cleaning up his blood and bits of broken lamp off the floor, he dozes on the sofa, never quite falling asleep, but feeling surprisingly refreshed come sunrise all the same.