Chapter Text
Sam never paid much attention to how things felt. Physically. Or, rather, how things feel since there was always something to be felt – in his line of work there was no short list: punches, bullets, a roundhouse to the face, the rattling in your bones after a vibranium weapon ricochets off of your chest.
The physical act of feeling was so fleeting in life that there was nothing significant about feeling. Not to him at least.
Though...having Bucky’s hand wrapped around his own, pulling it incrementally closer so that Sam’s knuckles just barely brushed the cerulean fabric of his henley, Sam wishes he put a lot more thought into how things felt. Maybe now he wouldn’t be going into a sensory overload.
“Call me when you have a lead and I’ll be there.” Bucky says it with such ease, such laziness that there’s no other way to interpret it than as a promise. Like it is something Bucky would do a thousand times over and has done a million times before (something Sam’s previous unanswered calls could argue against but even now they don’t strike up a battle).
Sam falls into Bucky’s words; metaphorically and literally as he feels his body sway even more forward, close enough for a second to kiss the words right off of Bucky’s lips-
Ground yourself, Wilson.
But even as he thinks it, he’s getting lost in dark, cobalt blue eyes that would be sharp and piercing if it wasn’t for the soft, comforting, almost dangerously easy smile that crinkles their edges.
Bucky’s the first to look away and Sam gets one blessed moment to catch his breath and push away the feeling (the felt feeling) of his heart flipping and fluttering inside him. He doesn’t have a spare moment to sit in the beauty of the feelings Bucky Barnes makes him feel.
Bucky’s leaving. And Sam will be left to deal with how much Bucky’s departure will make him feel too much of nothing at all.
. . .
“Alright boys, brush and bed, ten minutes,” Sarah says on an exhale as she pushes her seat away from the dinner table.
“But-,” Cass looks carefully between his mom and his uncle, “Uncle Sam, you had another story to tell us.” Even if Sam had, Sarah’s deadlocked glare is enough for him to forget it. “About how you and Bucky- Hey, when is Bucky coming back? He said he was going to let me and AJ take turns flying on his arm-”
“The way you and your brother have been running around all day, you wouldn't last through another story. I can tell from here how red your eyes are, bed now.” Cass lets out a defeated sigh and leaves the table with his brother in tow. “You’ll thank me when you see how good that pillow feels,” Sarah calls after them with a fond smile and a gentle shake of her head.
While his sister gets up from the table, Sam gets lost contemplating Cass’ question. When is Bucky coming back. Sam knew all he had to do was make a call but- No. It couldn’t be just any call, it had to be an important one. One with leads and information, a rendezvous point maybe and a tactical plan. It couldn’t be an “I miss you” call.
“I know you’re not about to sit there while I do these dishes.”
Sam snaps out of his thoughts and grins up at his sister. “Can’t remember having a wish to get clubbed in the head so, no.” He stands up and grabs several plates off of the table and after scraping whatever excess food the boys left into separate tupperwares he takes the dishes to the sink and starts to wash, Sarah already by his side with a towel to dry.
They work together in a comfortable silence for the first couple of minutes and Sam lets his mind wander again. Over the past few days the relationship between him and Bucky certainly...developed. And developed into something. If only Sam could find the word for that something, but what do you call a relationship where you go from one trying to kill the other upon first meeting to reluctantly knowing each other to begrudgingly working together to respecting each other to-
Whoa, whoa. To what? To that? It’s not that.
Sam’s heart feels like it’s trying to squeeze itself past his ribcage and out of his chest to give him a good look at it. For him to see that it is exactly what he's not admitting. Not even in the safety and solitude of his own mind.
But is his solitude of the mind even solitude when another person is floating around in it all day?
Maybe I could give him a call…. Say the boat’s engine is fucked again. I could get over there tonight and bust it up some-
“Come on, Wilson.” He doesn’t realize the whisper is said out loud until he hears Sarah’s chuckle next to him.
“You got it that bad, huh?”
Sam scoffs and gives his full attention to the dishes in front of him “I don’t got nothing,” Sam smirks away the accusation. “Not that I know what you’re talking about, but I definitely disagree.”
“I could tell you the sky is blue and you’d find a way to dodge it.”
“Depends on if you tell me before or after a storm rolls through.”
“There it is,” Sarah chuckles and finishes drying a serving plate. She sets both the plate and the drying rag down before turning completely towards her brother. “Bucky didn’t stay another day.”
The way she says it, like a question, has Sam throwing her a confused glance. “You see him somewhere I don’t?” Sarah rolls her eyes. “Honest question! Dude knows how to work a shadowed corner.”
“Sam.” Sam stops washing. “Why didn’t Bucky stay another day?”
He laughs and shrugs his shoulders. He couldn’t tell her if he wanted to! Bucky needed to go. Or wanted to…. Sam felt the sting of the latter.
“Why didn’t you ask Bucky to stay?”
Sarah’s question hits him like a pillow at the climax of a slumber party fight. It catches him off guard, it makes him stumble a little and he has to brace himself against the sink for support; It dazes him and makes him chuckle, not knowing what else to do. But it doesn’t hurt. Nothing about Bucky hurts him.
Sam doesn’t answer for a minute and she doesn’t push him. He stares down at the dishes and in the light blue ring of soap trapped inside a shuddering bubble, he’s reminded of Bucky’s eyes.
“That’s a lot to put on the table with just one question.”
“Makes it worth it though,” she sighs. “It’s one of those, ask one question and get a million answers kinda deal.”
“Maybe I’m not ready to have all those answers.”
“Boy, please,” she scoffs and Sam looks up at her surprised at the levity she’s just added to this conversation. “Know-it-all like you?” She grins and Sam laughs with her. When it gets quiet again Sam’s smile dips just slightly.
“It hasn’t been since Riley that I’ve-”
“Riley’s not here anymore, Sam. And the way he was watching you throw that shield?” Sarah tosses her head to the side and blows out a low breath. “Bucky damn well knows Steve’s not here anymore.” Sam blushes. “You both had your stories with other people. That’s great. Everyone has a past someone and it’s made you into the people you are right now. Stubborn, yes.” Sam smiles. “But ready, too, I think.”
Sam nods and Sarah wraps her arms around his waist and he lets her pull him in. He had forgotten how damn healing Sarah’s hugs could be.
When she goes to grab another plate Sam stops her and sends her (not without a fight and heavy convincing that he knows how to organize the cabinets to her liking) to bed. He finishes the dishes in silence and lets himself think about Bucky. No grounding, no cautionary stops, no hesitation.
And he feels.
By the time he finishes the kitchen it’s well into the night and a quick peek out the window shows Sam a sky that’s missing stars. Whatever storm is brewing it’s not going to be a steady one. He grabs a beer from the fridge and heads into the front room to collapse on the couch and unwind with the help of mindless late night TV. After settling on Nick at Nite, he doesn’t last more than 20 minutes before falling into an easy sleep. The couch encasing him in the scent of the person who laid there only a mere 24 hours before.
. . .
Sam wakes up to what he thinks is the sound of a low hanging branch banging against the side of the house. He grunts as he sits up and makes a small mental note that Nick At Nite is playing yet another rerun of Friends .
“The sweater’s Ross’, because that wasn't obvious at all.” He turns the TV off and sits forward with a sigh.
As he leans forward to grab his empty beer off of the table, he hears the banging again but notes that it’s not the kind you would get from a tree branch but more so one that would come from the fist of a human. Guess it makes sense that the noise is coming from the front door.
Not wanting the boys and Sarah to wake up, Sam rushes quietly to the front door, beer bottle in hand and peeks through the peephole. The sight that meets him forces him to pull back immediately and throw both the front and screen door open.
“Bucky?”
Because it’s him. His clothes are the same as earlier though a few shades darker from soaking up the rain and his backpack dragging by his side. His body is hunched and he’s panting, giving off a look like he’s just narrowly escaped from a fight with his life.
Sam looks him up and down once and pulls him inside.
“What the hell are you doing out there? Your flight- Man, it’s storming outside! You're lucky no lightning had an interest in the metal parts of you.” Sam flips on the kitchen light to give him some chance to get a real look at Bucky. Chestnut eyes meet cobalt and Sam has to catch his breath; though Bucky’s eyes look uncharacteristically heavy and saddened, Sam can’t ignore how they still manage to pierce right through him and make him yearn to be seen by them – every godforsaken inch of him, physical and not.
“Buck-”
“I don’t-” Bucky’s voice is hoarse and the rasp of it accompanied by the way he’s already whispering makes Sam lean in, carefully resting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. It’s then that Sam can feel Bucky shaking. He tightens his grip slightly and steps even closer.
He must be freezing in this. Just as Sam’s about to suggest Bucky get out of his wet clothes, Bucky starts talking again.
“I don’t want to go,” he whispers and lowers his head, shaking it slightly. “I don’t want to go, Sam, I don’t-,” he chokes on his words and at the sound of a poorly hidden sob Sam pulls him closer. Bucky, now fully in Sam’s arms starts to cry openly. His head drops to Sam’s shoulder and his arms cling to the back of his shirt. “I can’t do it, Sam, I can’t leave- I don’t want to.”
“And you don’t have to,” Sam reassures in a steady voice. “You don’t have to,” he repeats. Sam keeps one arm around Bucky’s waist and runs the other between his shoulder blades. Bucky’s still shaking and gripping so tightly onto Sam’s shirt he’s afraid it’ll tear sooner rather than later. But all Sam can focus on is the fact that Bucky, former Winter Soldier, “scowls-for-fun” Bucky is currently sobbing into his shoulder, leaving damp places both from tears and the rain dripping off of his dark hair. And Sam’s not entirely sure why. But he takes a breath, accesses his courage, and holds Bucky closer.
Sam moves his hand up from Bucky’s shoulder blades and into his hair. He turns his head just slightly so that his mouth rests near Bucky’s temple. The slow drag of his fingers through his hair invites Bucky to start evening out his breathing, though Sam can still detect the small hitches and low whines that come with crying. He closes his eyes.
“You don’t have to go,” Sam says again and hears Bucky take in a deep breath. “I don’t want you to go.”
Bucky exhales.
. . .
Sam doesn’t second guess his decision to take Bucky to his room. Along the way he makes up his own reasoning about Sarah and the boys not knowing Bucky is here and therefore more likely to get jumpy finding him on the couch in the morning. He doesn’t share said reasoning out loud but thinks it smart to have tucked away in his head. Just in case.
“Bed’s a full size but it should be enough,” Sam says once they’re shut away in his room. “Bathroom’s connected right over there.” He moves farther into his room, cleaning up his desk the best he can and moving some loose tools and screws off of the bed. “It’s a bit unorganized but in my defense, I wasn’t expecting late night company.” He turns to show his smile (and hopes to see one on Bucky’s face) but loses all train of thought when he sees Bucky standing by the closed door stripped down to his boxers.
He’s not looking at Sam, in fact, it doesn’t seem like he’s looking at anything. His eyes are downcast and the skin between his eyebrows just the slightest bit pinched, like he isn’t sure how he got to Sam’s room, much less why he’s standing half naked in it.
“Bucky?”
“Is this okay?” he gestures to himself.
“Are you comfortable?” Bucky nods. “Then it’s perfect.”
The pinched skin relaxes and Bucky looks over at Sam. His eyes still seem dull, saddened by something Sam can’t figure out but wants desperately to fight away. He takes the few steps necessary to stand in front of Bucky and takes his face between his hands. Bucky’s eyes close completely and he lowers his head to Sam’s shoulder again, though this time instead of crying into it, he nuzzles. Another thing Sam never expected from the ex-assassin. As Bucky nuzzles and fists the fabric of Sam’s shirt in his hands, he walks Sam backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed.
Then he stops. And he loosens his hold on Sam’s shirt to instead drop his hands to the sliver of skin between his shirt and his waistband.
As Sam’s breath hitches, Bucky turns his head so that his small and gentle exhales glide across Sam’s neck and leave goosebumps riding across his body.
Bucky’s hands travel farther up Sam’s shirt and his hips press closer. While Sam was certain he noticed before, he is now hyper aware of the fact that Bucky is only wearing boxers. His eyes flutter shut and his hands take a firm place on Bucky’s hips. He feels Bucky’s breath come out faster and smiles.
Bucky lifts his head slowly, his breath traveling up the right side of Sam’s face before his forehead rests against his. His hands glide back down Sam’s chest and push down on Sam’s waistband, not enough to get them off but enough for Sam to get the picture.
Sam slides his hands up Bucky’s chest and wraps them gingerly around his neck with his fingers splaying out across the back and up into his hair. He angles Bucky’s head to his liking and pulls him in closer. Opening his eyes, he sees Bucky’s are closed, the small pinch back between his eyebrows. Sam frowns and opens his mouth but freezes at the feeling of his lips just barely grazing the surface of Bucky’s.
And then Bucky whimpers and Sam has to push past whatever the fuck feeling that elicits.
“Hold on, Buck.” Sam pushes Bucky’s hips back and leans his body back just enough to see Bucky’s full face. Though he doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes, Sam can still catch the layer of sadness over them.
Bucky doesn’t move any farther away than he needs to while Sam takes his clothes off and Sam’s only a little self conscious of the awkward way he has to shimmy out of his jeans so that Bucky can keep close. Once he’s down to just his boxers though, he doesn’t let Bucky move back in. Instead, Sam gets in the bed under the covers and pulls back the other side.
And Bucky, true to nature, just stares.
“C’mere, Barnes,” Sam whispers and holds out his arms.
Though he won’t say it in the moment, Sam needs this just as much as Bucky does. Needs to be held and crooned over and...and felt. So at the moment of hesitation, the ten seconds Bucky stands on the outside of the bed looking down at Sam feel like hours, days even if Sam wasn’t so keenly aware of the fact that the sun never comes up. Though maybe the storm stayed longer and raged darker than anyone was expecting. But eventually Bucky does move and when he gets in the bed it’s like a magnet between the two of them pulls Bucky flush up against Sam’s body.
Sam braces himself expecting Bucky’s skin to be ice cold from the rain, instead he’s comforted by the feeling of his warmth, the way it presses into his chest and then spreads throughout his body. Easing him. Relaxing him.
Right. Super Soldier.
He recovers from the surprise and focuses on tucking the covers properly around their bodies. Bucky starts nuzzling again, this time into Sam’s sternum, and his body shivers once before settling. His arms are tucked in on himself and Sam can feel against his torso the difference between flesh and vibranium. He realizes he doesn’t have a preference. They both feel like Bucky.
Sam combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and the other man lets out a long sigh, one Sam can tell he’s been holding in. He pushes his fingers through again and again until he finds a rhythm, a pattern between long pulls and short circles that eventually lull Bucky to sleep.
When Sam’s eyes start to get heavier and his fingers in Bucky’s hair start to slow he lets his arm curl around Bucky’s head, his position almost protective. He drifts into something easy, something that’s bright but not blinding as his subconscious takes over. Whatever he’s feeling in those last moments before sleep – the long exhales from Bucky brushing up against his chest, the still somewhat damp hair grazing along the tips of his fingers, the gentle clasping and unclasping of Bucky’s hand around his waist, and the small twitches that touch different parts of his body – it feels right.