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It’s warm, an optimistic heat that crept into the bedroom with spring. It teeters on too warm, too perfect with sweat prickling at skin with the pair tangled so tightly together atop that worn quilt.
When Bucky presses close enough, bends himself tightly enough around Sam, the metal tags around his neck warm and press indentations into their skin. Bucky’s name over both their hearts.
When Bucky slings his left arm across Sam’s waist he sighs in content, not apprehension. It isn’t a weapon, it is part of him. It fixed things now, instead of breaking them. Acts of service. He isn’t proving himself to Sam, he’s proving his devotion. Although he doesn’t need to prove anything, he can hear that reminder in Sam’s voice. But it feels good and he deserves good things. They both do.
Bucky feels safe, whole. It’s a feeling that has eluded him for a long time and catching it now feels like finally finding peace. Laying down to die and waking up more alive than before. He’s never felt more free than he does at that moment, legs and affections tangled with Sam.
Sometimes, on nights like this, Bucky doesn’t chase sleep, not because he can’t, not because he’s afraid, but because he doesn’t want to. He wants to hold onto the quiet moment, familiarize himself with refuge he’d never known before. He’s finally traded blood for water, lets the salty waves swallow him and clean him of his crimes.
Sam’s breath is warm against his mouth, soft little exhales as he wanes into sleep. He surprises Bucky with his name, a murmur on his skin.
“Hm?”
“Ever thought about a family?”
The gravity of the question throws Bucky slightly off-kilter, different from the weight of the shield hurtling towards him, it’s better. It’s not what he’s expecting after all this time, it’s better. He’s being returned a key he gave away to someone else years ago, he’s being promised a future. Because this moment is good, but every moment that follows will be good too. Bucky hasn’t had that kind of security before.
“Yeah.”
Yeah. He always had. It was expected, before he tasted war and knew it would never really leave him without another more personal war, he assumed he would be a father. That was a more brittle time, but it was also maybe a simpler time. Your future was sketched for you, Bucky is finally taking the pen back and writing it out for himself.
Bucky likes kids, loves them, really. Bright and inquisitive and so forgiving. They’re unassuming and delighted by him, can’t conceive of him as a pawn of destruction but as someone far gentler and a lot cooler.
He doesn’t have the words to encompass that, so he settles against Sam and shrugs, “wouldn’t be much of a father now.”
Sam’s too tired and too smart to give Bucky that satisfaction of indignation. And Bucky’s trying to unlearn his crave for validation.
Sam gives him the facts instead, “I trust you with my family. Sarah trusts you with the boys.”
Like that settles it, and maybe it does. Sam Wilson is open and brilliantly optimistic but he’s not naive or careless. Bucky thinks of gleeful smiles, missing teeth, and infectious comfort. He’s accustomed to being gawked at, suspicious stares, instead it’s in awe from two boys who trust him in the unconditional way that only children can. Trust is balm to his healing soul.
“Contrary to popular belief, Buck, I don’t just let any handsome, brooding idiot into my bed or hang around my family.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Sam exhales laughter and it feels like absolution settling into Bucky’s skin. Bucky leans in to catch his mouth brief and sweet.
“So you do? You want kids?”
Sam feigns contemplation for a moment, as though he hadn’t posed the question initially with careful intention.
“Yeah. Maybe even with you, if you can believe it.”
Bucky doesn’t think he can believe it, because he’s lived through the worst and knows heartache best, but now he’s hovering at the threshold of something good. Something that almost feels too precious for bloodstained hands. Yet, here it is. He just has to take it.
“I was just thinking about all the kids, the refugees.” Sam pauses, sighs almost sadly as he curls more tightly around Bucky, “we could give them a home,” another pause, “and they probably wouldn’t even care that one of their dads has a weird staring problem.”
That shocks a laugh from Bucky as he nuzzles against Sam’s cheek, “probably, they might be too busy being weirded out by their other dad’s bird costume.”
That does earn an indignant huff, “hey, call it a bird costume again and you’re back on the couch!”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Sam can’t conceal his agreement, he wouldn’t. Not when he’s so warm and pleased with Bucky in his arms.
They’re quiet and considering for a beat, listening to their mingled breathing and the lull of waves.
Bucky starts gently, teasing, “what if I don’t age as fast, with the serum? What if it’s our kids and their fit, young father and their crotchety looking grandpa-dad?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Bucky satiates his luminous affections by tilting his forehead to Sam’s and smiling against his lips, a full and bright genuine grin that he saves for the Wilson family.
“Yeah. If it’s with you, of course I would.”
Sam groans, unable to truly clear the fervor from the sound, punctuates it with his words, “don’t get soft on me now, Bucky.”
“You just asked to have a kid with me.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
There’s an interlude of tender kisses, holding each other so close that Bucky forgets what it ever felt like to fall, Sam forgets what it ever felt like to hurt. They’re already whole apart, and they feel even more complete together.
Breathlessly, Bucky declares, “no take-backs.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”