Chapter Text
Bucky wakes with a start, chest heaving. The ground lurches under him, and he feels certain that he’s being moved without his will. There’s a weight on his chest- and they never used to restrain his torso. But then there’s the soft, rhythmic sound of water licking against the boat, and Bucky attempts to remember what year it is. The sun peeking through the small window is warm and golden, and his limbs are tangled in soft sheets and a quilt, smelling faintly of something Bucky remembers Sarah referring to as 'fabric softener'.
Right. Sarah. The Wilsons. Things were starting to make more sense.
A note is taped to the wall beside the bed. It’s in his own handwriting, neat and even. He pulls it off of the paneled wall, satisfied with the noise the tape makes as it snaps.
YOU AND SAM TOOK THE BOAT OFF THE COAST OF LOUISIANA.
Bucky’s lip pulls into an unintentional smile, and he closes his eyes as he remembers the events that brought them here. After he finished his amends, after Morgenthau, after Sam became Captain fucking America, they took some time off, relaxing with Sarah and the kids. Bucky finally got to experience soul food. He learned what a “tik-tok” was, and ate gritty, sugary cake from the grocery store, and smiled at Sam like he was seeing the sun for the first time. It was strange, having time to himself without a checklist or a mission. He felt as though things would quickly come crashing back to reality, and a selfish, small part of him wanted to preserve these moments in amber, never changing, frozen (for lack of a better word) exactly how they were. It was during one of these perfect, amber-encased moments with Sam that Bucky had floated the idea:
“Sam- d’you wanna take the boat out?” Bucky was entertaining a light beer, something salty and bitter and way better than the swill he and Steve used to drink. Sam nursed his own, enjoying the warm humidity of a late-summer evening, and turned to Bucky with a smirk.
“Where?” Sam’s voice was heavy with alcohol, soft and velvety. He turned his deep brown eyes onto Bucky and raised an eyebrow conspiratorially, and Bucky knew in that moment that it didn’t matter where. Not really.
“Anywhere. Just, y’know, get off the grid for a while. ‘Sides, we spent so much time fixing the thing, might as well use it.”
“Sure, whatever you want,” Sam laughed, bright like a bell. It made Bucky’s heart twist in a strange way, and suddenly he was spending every waking moment learning how to sail.
Bucky sits upright, letting his toes brush against the cool floor. He was staying in the second bedroom- Sam claimed the master (“seeing as it’s my birthright,” he had said), leaving Bucky to contend with a room certainly not designed for super soldiers who could barely fit through the door. He stretches, sighs, and fumbles for a clean t-shirt. It felt as though part of him brushed against a wall or surface every time he moved, cramped and cozy. And while he isn’t unfamiliar with cramped quarters and no legroom, part of him longs for wide open spaces.
Emerging into the galley, Sam is nowhere to be found, but the smell of bacon was in the air. Sam was always an early riser, and though Bucky wasn’t sure what time it was, he figured it was obscenely early for Sam to be awake and cooking. He climbs the ladder to the deck, walking calmly to where Sam sits in a folding lawn chair, sipping coffee.
“Morning, Cap.”
“Morning. Sleep well, princess?”
“What time is it, anyway?” Bucky asks and ignores Sam, too distracted by the second plate of breakfast and mug beside Sam’s own to genuinely care about the answer. Sam had made him breakfast. Sam had set a place for him and waited for him to wake up. He knew his standards for kindness and considerate behavior were on the floor, but Sam managed to consistently surprise him by how thoughtful he was. Bucky walks to the empty chair and sits, breathing in the smell of humid, salty air, and closes his eyes.
“Seven forty-two. Really, you slept in. We’re usually up by five thirty.” Sam laughs, and Bucky peeks an eye open to peer at him. His smile is warm, especially with the early-morning fog rising off of the water, evaporating in delicate swirls. Sam appeared, at least to Bucky, to be responsible for the continuation of the water cycle, providing a heat source to kickstart evaporation. He was always warm, in personality and words and deeds, but here in the golden hour he was liquid gold himself, smooth and warm and alluring. From the timbre of his voice to the literal tips of his fingers, Sam was warm.
And Bucky was so sick of being cold.
He reaches for his coffee, secretly enjoying the tiny click of vibranium on ceramic, and Bucky realizes with a pleased sound that Sam had remembered how he took it.
(The conversation, after Bucky complained about bitter coffee but refused cream and sugar, went something like this:
“Don’t waste that shit on me, man. It’s expensive.”
“Buck, you have an arm made of the rarest metal on the planet. I think we can afford sugar.”
Bucky took his coffee black with three sugars.)
“Thanks,” Bucky grunts after half of his mug was gone. “To answer your question,” he trails off, sighing. “I barely fit in the room. The bed’s small. So the sleep wasn’t the greatest, but I have impossibly high standards. I slept through most of the last century.” He chuckles, a short huff of breath, that settles as a grin when he hears the lilt of Sam’s laughter.
Sam’s eyelashes were long, fanning against his cheekbones when he closed his eyes. Since they’d been on the boat he’s been letting more of his facial hair grow in, framing the sharp line of his jaw. His lips look soft and warm, and, oddly, Bucky feels jealous of the mug as he watches him sip his own coffee (two cream, two sugar).
Bucky sighs. He’s long since resigned himself to living with the warm flutters of attraction he feels when he looks at Sam. It had been far, far too long since he’s allowed himself to genuinely connect with another living being, and he figures his body is simply remembering how to care again, getting the wires between affection and attraction crossed. He’s also accepted that he was going to be Sam’s partner in… Well, not crime, but in heroics, or justice, or something else befitting of Captain America.
Anything he feels beyond that is just collateral. He can compartmentalize it and move on and not jeopardize the only things in life he has an attachment to.
“You can have the master,” Sam says, and Bucky remembers that they were having a conversation. Bucky shakes his head, brows pulling into a line as he frowns.
“No. It’s your inheritance, or whatever. I’m fine.”
“We’ll share, then. You’re on vacation. You deserve to sleep somewhat comfortably.” And there he was, doing that thing he did where he said something that cut through the layers of armor and made Bucky feel seen, as though he were broadcasting his thoughts over the airwaves and Sam were a finely tuned radio. He emphasized words in his most Captain-esque voice, held eye contact, and pinned Bucky in place as if under a spotlight. In these moments, Bucky felt stunned. That’s another thing Sam seems to do effortlessly: end conversations with the upper hand, leaving Buck at a loss for words.
That was how Bucky ended up curled up beside Sam, so close he could feel the warmth of Sam's body. Admittedly, this bed was preferable to the smaller one that Bucky had been sleeping in-- for one, he could stretch out his legs fully-- but he wasn't having an easier time sleeping. He wasn’t sure anyone could blame him. Sam was a sound sleeper, turned away from Bucky and breathing smooth and even. He was warm, peaceful, calm as ever. Bucky felt compelled to watch him, to keep him safe, to not close his eyes. He didn't want to risk forgetting this.
Bucky watches his chest rise and fall, and if he listens hard enough, he can hear the steady drumline of Sam’s heartbeat. Even, calm, rhythmic.
At least until he wakes up. Sam gasps, chest heaving, launching himself into a seated position. Like a startled cat, Bucky flinches away, pressing his back against the paneled wall. He stays quiet as Sam pants, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
“Don’t tell me you’re unfamiliar with bad dreams,” Sam starts, defensive, before Bucky can ask what happened. Bucky can see the way his jaw is clenched, tense all through his neck and shoulders, and he breathes slowly, attempting to self-soothe.
“I don’t dream often,” Bucky murmurs, relaxing away from the wall to once again settle comfortably. “But... Yeah.”
“Usually they’re about Riley. Rhodes, sometimes. Karli was in this one.”
Slowly, Bucky sits upright, mopping his hands over his face (one warm, one much cooler). He nudges Sam aside to sit beside him, the two simply existing in one another's space, still and quiet until Bucky gets up the nerve to speak.
“Mine are pretty abstract. Soldier memories, usually.” He chuckles darkly. “Готов подчиниться.”
Sam shakes his head, closing his eyes tight and breathing slowly. In through his nose, out through his lips. After a few long beats, he lifts his head and looks at Bucky, pulling a smile.
“Are, uh. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Buck. We’ve tried talking about our feelings before, we don’t have to start now,” he laughs, bumping their knees. Bucky stares at them, at the bare expanse of Sam’s skin, how soft it looks. There are still faint bruises from their fight with Karli, and Bucky feels all at once overwhelmed by the desire to do something kind for him.
Bucky rises to his feet, stretching slowly, before putting out his hand to stop Sam from getting up. “I’m making breakfast,” he mumbles.
Sam wanders into the kitchen as Bucky finishes the oatmeal, spicing with cinnamon and swirling brown sugar into the mix. He’d developed a taste for the indulgence since meeting the Wilsons- Cass refused to let him eat anything plain, shoveling various toppings onto Bucky’s servings before they settled on one that he liked. Sam pours himself a coffee and leans against the counter beside Bucky, practically in his personal space. Bucky samples the oatmeal off of the spoon he was stirring it with, causing Sam to pull a face.
“Gross.”
“What?”
“You just put it back in the pot, man. It was in your mouth.”
Just to be contrary, Bucky lifts the spoon and takes another mouthful, wrapping his lips around the utensil in a way he’d seen women do in pin-ups. He flutters his eyelashes, attempts to look alluring and demure. Sam rolls his eyes, folding his arms while Bucky serves the food. Not the response he'd anticipated, but Bucky could work with ambivalence. Automatically, as Bucky passes Sam a bowl, they move to sit on the deck, falling easily into a rhythm together. They chat absently while they eat, about the weather, about the boat, about the day's plans. Bucky speaks without thinking, preoccupied by watching a nearby seal with quiet interest. The creature bobs in and out of the water, inky black eyes peering curiously at them.
He wonders if it has ever seen a boat before.
“Do you think he’s ever seen a boat?”
“Did you just ask me if that seal has ever seen a boat? In the middle of our deep emotional conversation?”
“What- did I interrupt you?”
“No- no, you’re fine. I just never thought you’d- y’know. Think about seals.”
“Well, he’s staring into my soul. What else should I think about?”
Sam snickers, downing more coffee and reclining his head against the back of his chair. “He probably has. He’s big, so he’s probably old, like you. He's seen some shit.”
“Ah.”
Bucky ruminates on that for a little while. He wonders what seals think about in old age.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Sam says, quietly.
“I’ve got- er, I had- three siblings. Mom couldn’t do everything herself.”
“What were their names?”
Bucky frowns. The memory is faint- a lot of things before Siberia are fuzzy, details only confirmed by the presence of someone else. Steve was a good sounding board for those moments, but now things were harder to confirm. Details were missing, like they were slightly out of focus, a well-loved jigsaw puzzle missing the finishing pieces. “Dot, Virginia, and Albert,” he says, finally remembering, though the faces are still misty and distant.
“Two sisters, huh,” Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve got one and she was more than a handful. Can’t imagine what you went through.”
“They were fun. Hard to remember anything, now, though.”
“Did you ever look into where they ended up?” Sam’s question is quiet, even-toned, but it brings Bucky pause. He had considered it- considered searching every available database to find evidence of what happened to his loved ones, people he went to school with- but that task was heavy and daunting. Worse than making amends with those he had wronged, learning the fates of those dear to him cut so much deeper.
Bucky shakes his head. “I’m sure I know where they are now. Besides- it won’t do me any good to know, so.” He shrugs, sips his coffee, watches the seal finally duck under the surface and swim away. The coffee tastes acidic in his throat now. “They all moved on after I 'died'. I might as well do the same.”
Sam looks at him sideways, through the framing of his eyelashes, and his lips twist in a curious little way. Bucky can tell, by now, that Sam wants to pry, peel up the floorboards and discover what lurks beneath the surface, but Bucky refuses to make eye contact. He sighs over his drink, broods for a few moments longer. “Anyway. I’ve- I’ve got people who are alive and who know I’m alive to care about. No point chasing more ghosts.”
He feels strange, talking so much, and worries suddenly that he’s overstepped, in some way, or perhaps bared too much of his soul. Sam doesn’t respond right away, mulling over his words thoughtfully, like a sommelier, taking his time to let them resonate.
“That’s probably the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” is what he lands on with a chuckle.
“That was hateful, Sam,” Bucky shoots back, dry and amused.
“I’ve gotta keep you on your toes somehow,” Sam laughs, though he claps his big warm hand on Bucky’s shoulder in a friendly way, and Bucky doesn’t flinch away from the motion. He sighs, soft and gentle, and tips his head to peer at Sam.
“You should respect your elders,” Bucky murmurs, soft.
His heart aches in a strange, small way as he watches Sam’s thousand-watt smile stretch across his face, and suddenly it’s too much all at once. Bucky turns his gaze once again seaward.
When Bucky dreams, it is stilted and abstract, shapes and colors. Words (солдат), sounds (gunfire), feelings (cold). He feels a mouth guard between his lips, electricity on his skin, the burn of a phantom limb. Bucky forgets/remembers, thinks of foggy names and faces, girls who he kissed and men who he killed. He feels the chafe of his mask against skin, remembers the feeling of another man’s stubble on his cheek. He remembers killing Mrs. Stark, and remembers laughing drunkenly with friends.
When he wakes, eyes wet and chest heaving, he can’t fight down the sob that falls from his lips. He mourns, after dreams like this. Mourns for himself, mourns for the ones who died at his hands, mourns the memories and time he lost. His right hand slaps to his mouth to try, in vain, to cover the shaky, gasping sounds he makes as he attempts to calm himself. He turns to stare at the wall, eyes roving over the repeated pattern of laminated wood paneling.
My name is Bucky Barnes. I am no longer the Winter Soldier.
It takes the feeling of a warm, callused hand on his shoulder to remind Bucky that he’d been sleeping next to another human being, and he jumps as though he had been electrocuted.
“Buck?” Sam’s voice is soft, cautious. Bucky’s hand trembles over his mouth and he doesn’t respond verbally, though he does nod to signal that he had heard the other man speak. “Can you talk to me?”
Bucky shakes his head.
His eyes fall closed. Sam’s hand hasn’t left his shoulder, and the sounds he’s stifling burn his lungs. He wants to shout, or scream, or wail Sam’s name and fall to pieces. His traitorous body settles on shakily breathing through his nose, fast and unsteady like a muzzled beast.
“Hey, man,” Sam continues. Bucky vaguely remembers that Sam was trained in helping people in crisis. “Hey, Bucky. You’re okay. You had a nightmare. You’re okay. You’re with me- with Sam- and you aren’t in any danger. Neither of us are.”
Air feels easier to get, now. Cautiously, Bucky drops his hand from his face and breathes, the sweet burn of oxygen feeling oddly like coming out of cryo. The first breaths were always difficult, frozen lungs unfamiliar with the feeling of room-temperature air. It was like starting a car that had been left sitting for months, like every part of him had to remember how to function again. Bucky closes his eyes, gradually rolls onto his back. It feels as though the movement takes hours.
“Sorry,” he grits.
“Why are you apologizing?”
Bucky peeks an eye open to peer at Sam. He’s propped himself up on his side, frowning at Bucky in his overly-earnest overly-genuine way. His brows knit together, and Bucky thinks that Sam’s going to get worry lines.
“Because that… It’s usually easier,” he tries, shrugging vaguely. “I don’t usually react so violently.”
“Oh,” Sam breathes, even though Bucky’s positive he could’ve surmised as much on his own. It wasn’t like this was the first time Sam had seen him in a rough spot- and wasn’t the first time he’d seen Bucky after a nightmare. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. Your brain has a lot to process.”
Bucky makes a displeased little sound in his throat and stares at the ceiling. The panels had been replaced by hand, and the shape of the room required an odd number of tiles. Bucky had gotten into a disagreement (or, as Sam put it, screaming argument) with the disinterested cashier at the store for informing him that ceiling tiles weren’t sold individually.
(“What kind of lunatic doesn’t sell single tiles?”
“Us, apparently,” they had said.)
Either way, Sam and Bucky had replaced the ceiling in this room, and Bucky now stared at them like he was counting the flecks in the white material. “It was- it involved Mrs. Stark, this time,” he said, noncommittal. “Usually it isn’t so specific.”
Sam’s lips curl into a deeper frown- Bucky can tell without looking- and he opens his mouth to speak. Bucky decides to cut him off.
“Zemo showed us the video. Years ago.” He shifts uncomfortably. “That’s probably why I can remember it so well.”
“It wasn’t you, Buck.”
“It was.” He shrugs. “It was me, and that’s… Fine. It wasn’t my fault, but I still did it. It's fine. It's my cross to bear, or whatever.”
He pulls himself into a seated position, feels the way the bed creaks under his shifting weight, and stares blankly ahead of himself. He looks at the small room, the photographs of Sam and his family dotting the walls, the analog clock resting delicately on the bedside table. He wants to think more deeply about the way Sam’s skin looks in the dawn, but his brain is still foggy and mistranslated, Russian and English. He feels the ghost of long hair brush against his cheekbone, and absently reaches up to tuck a non-existent strand of hair behind his ear.
“Do you want coffee?" He asks, avoidant.
"Sure."
They don't talk about it again.