Work Text:
Late at night, when Bucky hopes that everyone in the house is soundly sleeping, he replays his and Sam’s timeline in his head- not the Winter Soldier , but Bucky and Sam. It’s not boring enough to lull himself to sleep and Sam takes up most of his thoughts these days anyway. There’s no reason not to keep up with the trend even in his sleeplessness.
The memories before the Snap happened are all scrambled in his head. They come back mainly in the form of nightmares; sweaty bed sheets and tear stained cheeks. The actions of the Winter Soldier blur together more often than not with everything before and after that time, that’s the hard part. He works aimlessly to separate his nightmares in categories of things that did happen and things that only could have. Sometimes Bucky wakes up with the remorse of killing people that are walking and breathing and talking but how is he supposed to know that and oh, God-
Tonight he’s sifting through the fight against the other Avengers, ones that Steve had burned the bridge of right down to the ash. Images of the Raft come back to Bucky all at once. He hadn’t gone to back Steve up but he was the one flying the planes hovering above the advantage and escape point. Bucky doesn’t let out a breath until they’re flying away into the storming clouds, bruises battered across everyone’s faces and a sadness set in them that’ll probably never go away.
Shaking hands on the controls and trying yet failing not to eavesdrop on Sam’s anguished muttering, so quiet he could barely be heard. From the side mirror, Bucky can see the man gripping onto the front of Steve’s suits, fists clenched tight in the material.
“It should’ve been me -”
Steve looks just as hurt as Sam, a pitiful frown across his cheeks as he attempts to console. “It was an accident, Sam.”
Sam seemed to be having none of that because his head shook almost as frantically as his hands were. “Don’t give me that ‘Sam’ bullshit. Rhodey is paralyzed and it’s all my fucking fault.”
They argue for a few more seconds before Sam’s voice cracks within the next few sentences. His face is crumbling just as his legs seemingly give out, Steve’s hands clamping his forearms aren’t enough to hold him up anymore.
Seeing Sam, a man with the most reserve and stability, fall apart right in front of Bucky leaves him wordless. His lungs clench at the way Sam slides down the wall with his knees hugged tight to his chest. He feels like he’s intruding and forces his eyes in front of him..
The others must not know how to react to the hushed hysteric either. Sam breaking down is a foreign occurrence. The way the silence hangs heavy in the air between them proves that theory. Bucky can see Steve’s hands slowly reach for the man on the floor but something makes him clench his fists and make his way back up to the co-pilot seat.
Bucky remembers feeling oddly heavy-hearted at the sight for the first time in awhile. It had come back in pangs every time his eyes wander from the sky around them to Sam behind him, hugging himself tight like if he doesn’t he’ll fall apart.
When Steve took the control the first thing Bucky did was clamber down next to Sam, letting their knees bump together. He didn’t think Sam would mind the company, since everyone else on the jet was avoiding him like a plague. Ignoring Steve’s eyes watching the two of them like a hawk, Bucky unscrewed the lid of his canteen and extended his hand towards Sam.
Bucky continued to avoid their concerned stares and nudged Sam with his metal arm. “Here.”
Sam didn’t answer, but his eyes weren’t rimmed with red like Bucky thought they would be. It looked almost as though Sam was somewhere else, his brown eyes dulled and glazed over. A shell of the person he usually was. Bucky made the mental note to ask Steve about it later.
“Drink.” Bucky reiterated, pushing the bottle out closer to Sam in an offering.
The other man blinked twice before meeting Bucky’s eyes. “What is it?”
He couldn’t stop himself from the rolling of his eyes. “Water.”
Sam stared at him suspiciously, but he did take the bottle and hold it between the two of his hands before peering inside. “You backwash?”
This man is going to be the death of him. Bucky knows slim to nothing about anything Sam Wilson related but he already knows that the man will be a pain in the ass.
“Just drink the damn water, Wilson.”
Despite muttering some kind of complaint, he’s lifting the bottle to his lips and taking a tentative sips. Bucky doesn’t even pretend that he is not watching Sam’s adam's apple bob and the popping of the veins in his throat at the onslaught. It’s almost as though Bucky has to catch his breath when Sam is handing the bottle back, their fingers meeting for only a moment before retreating to their respective sides.
“Thanks.”
At the time, Bucky didn’t know what the budding feeling was. Didn’t have much time to ponder it before he's turned into a human icicle and thrown in a Wakanda freezer. It’s better this way, he tells himself, pointedly ignoring the carefully guarded expression on Sam’s face when they put him under.
The best part about being in cyro is that there are no dreams. Nothing haunts Bucky as he’s being rescued this time. There are no nightmares to eat away at him, no real thoughts either. Waking up is the easy part, living after the fact was harder.
Bucky’s not dreaming, or sleeping for that matter, when he hears footsteps making their way down the stairs. On instinct his body tenses before he forces himself to relax. All those years of fitful interrupted sleep really stick with a person. Even in his studio Bucharest apartment where he had slept on a sleeping bag over a bare mattress he’d gotten more rest. He doesn’t know what the issue is here surrounded by nothing but reassurance in Sam’s family home.
“What the hell are you doing still awake?” Sam’s exasperated voice whisper-yells from the bottom of the steps leading to the living room.
Bucky immediately jolted from his thoughts of the past and was dragged quickly to the present. The vision of Sam clad in red plaid pajama pants and nothing more would do that to anyone, he supposed. Despite the darkness of the room, the light of the moon shines enough for Bucky to see Sam’s arms crossed over his chest and peeved facial expression.
Sam doesn’t bother to wait for a reply, just makes his way to the couch before promptly throwing Bucky’s legs over the side to make a seat for himself.
Feigning annoyance, Bucky sends a swift kick to Sam’s leg and further to his dismay, the man just catches his ankle with a chuckle.
“Someone’s feisty when they don’t get a bedtime story. I thought I already tucked you in for the night so why aren’t you snoring yet?”
The thought of Sam pulling the blankets to Bucky’s chin and placing a kiss to his forehead sounds like an unattainable fantasy, but one he wouldn’t mind living out nonetheless. He shakes it away in the correlation that the other man is awake, too. Taking a closer look he can see the dark circles that lay underneath Sam’s honeyed eyes. There’s a visible tension laying on his back and shoulders that Bucky itches to soothe away.
Bucky scowls at him, sitting up and letting the blanket fall from his shoulder to his lap. “That’s rich coming from you. Christ, I might still need hearing aids from how loud your snoring was on that damn plane.”
When Sam just chuckles, Bucky crosses his legs on the couch and turns to face him. “And what about you?”
Sam’s fingers twitch so slightly that it’s barely noticeable. It would have slipped right by anyone else, but Bucky has become quite accustomed to the nervous ticks of his friend. He’s shivering too, even though it’s uncomfortably humid in the room. Mirroring outside he supposed, Bucky wasn’t prepared for how hot Delacroix would be in the summer or the nonexistent usage of air conditioning everywhere.
“What about me?” Sam treads delicately, as to not give too much of himself away.
Bucky wishes that Sam would allow himself the amity he offers to others with two palms open. Giving but never taking. He doesn’t pick people apart the way they do to him. Sam deserves the love he gives to others, and Bucky will be damned if he doesn’t try to tip the scale back in his friend’s direction. He’ll die trying at least. Bucky’s taken too much from Sam himself not to.
There’s always guilt involved when Bucky reminds himself of how he had treated Sam at the decision to donate the shield. He’d been too caught up in his own grief to recognize Sam’s. His resentful feelings will never be enough of an excuse for lashing out at the most undeserving person of it. He has caused too much of what makes Sam ache.
Once in a while Bucky wonders if Sam’s nightmares ever include the Winter Soldier. He vaguely remembers a highway, Sam’s heavy duty boots slamming into the middle of his chest, his metal arm clamping around Sam’s sharp jawline and using not even half of his strength to throw him into the wall, Sam lying lifeless on the floor and Bucky not even giving him a second glance before advancing to the next victim. If he does, there’s never an indication. Sam never flinches away from Bucky’s touches, but there’s also no gauge if he likes the closeness or not.
It makes him nauseous to think about the multiple points in time where the pain coursing through Sam’s body was caused by him. Bucky selfishly hopes it isn’t tonight’s element of restlessness for the man across from him.
It isn’t that Bucky wants Sam to break down. The soul-crushing breathlessness of feeling like he has nothing left while Bucky lays on his sofa just a floor away. He can picture it now- Sam’s muffled cries into a pillow with his unnecessarily large quilt wrapped so tight around his shoulders that it’s suffocating. He hopes that Sam would come down and search for the comfort that he hashes out daily, but Bucky knows better.
He won’t get the answer he wants out of Sam, not tonight at least. Bucky studies the restraint that Sam holds, in his expression and over his shoulders like a weight. He tries a different approach.
“Seems a little early for our morning jog.” Bucky says lightly, not wanting to sound accusing. It’s not quite a skittish receiving look, but more high strung like he’s wound up too tight. That’s a thought to analyze for later. For now, his eyes stay on Sam’s cautious ones.
Sam isn’t smiling but there is humor in his tone. “Thought I should get a head start.”
Bucky bites at the inside of his cheek and shakes his head. Sam is deflecting, it doesn’t take a genius to notice. Which is unfortunate because Bucky almost falls for the banter. He’s smart enough to know that Sam won’t open up here. Not in his living room surrounded by plastic toys and framed photos of a life he doesn’t know anymore.
“Y’know, I’m kinda sore from yesterday.” Bucky says before standing and stretching his stiff joints. He turns to Sam and outstretches his arm towards him. “Lets just walk instead.”
It’s still dark outside, not even the shine of the moon and stars are enough for him to properly see the other man. Wordlessly, Sam takes Bucky’s hand and lets himself be pulled up.
It’s a routine for them. They spend the day together and go their separate ways every night. Sam stumbles down the stairs more often than not with faltered breathing and oversized clothes that leaves only the tips of his fingers visible. There’s an armchair that Sam ignores every time in favor of huddling in next to Bucky, sometimes pulling the blanket around his own shoulders for them to share or just taking it for himself.
Falling in love with Sam is as easy as breathing. For every inhale Sam is making fun of something about Bucky and the next exhale he’s handing over a flower he picked from the side of the road and thought was pretty. Another inhale has Sam fussing over his bruises post-mission and then comes the exhale of Sam’s hands pushing Bucky roughly off the boat into the water below then laughing so hard he falls off himself.
They're outside after a perplexing day of attempting to fix the boat's engine. In every way the two of them push the mechanics, some piece falls off or it co tines to stutter when one of them turn the key in the ignition.
It's not until they click their beers together at the end of it all when a small butterfly, orange and yellows spotting its wings, lands on the bridge of Sam's nose. The man doesn't do anything but smile, eyes crossing with the objective to stare at the bug. Its wings flutter against Sam's curled eyelashes and it's flying away all too soon. Bucky just sits back and stares and the small smile it left in its wake across Sam's cheeks.
The nights Sam doesn’t grace Bucky with his presence, his thoughts are of their future rather than their past. He thinks of all the ways he could make Sam melt beneath his palms, and if Sam would let him kiss every inch of velvety skin and mouth away all of his hardships. Bucky would start top to bottom, from Sam’s forehead down to his toes. A press to every single single finger tip, every dip where his muscles protrude, every tendon. He’d swallow the agonies of Sam’s day and let his hands trail over that taut muscle, forcing it loose beneath his touch. Bucky knows he could make Sam feel good, so great he’d feel it for days afterward.
The part of Bucky’s love that’s arrogant and maybe a little self-centered is sure that only he could give Sam the mitigation he has so unequivocally earned.
Bucky thinks about all the times on the jet that Sam’s head drops onto his shoulder after missions or just watching mindless television at night, what it would take for Bucky to laces their fingers together. What would it take for Sam to wrap his arms around Bucky and never let go? What would it take for their lips to finally meet right in the middle?
If Sam were to break his heart, would he be gentle? Would Sam hold Bucky’s hands between the warmth of his own and tell Bucky that he’s tearing them apart? Or would it be an inconceivable screaming match- cold and uncollected and tears yelling?
That would be easiest. A clean break straight through Bucky’s chest, a pain that would numb after the years, something that could become a distant memory rather than a distinct one that’s always at the front of his thoughts. Maybe it would happen early on; extinguishing the flames of hope would hurt less than digging at the coals of the aftermath, after all.
Or maybe he’d be the one breaking Sam’s heart (again, he thinks to himself). Just the notion makes Bucky sick. His hands have done enough of hurting Sam, even when it wasn’t really him. Bucky thinks of whispering I love you’s into Sam’s mouth instead, and he’s almost better.
Would Sam be as gentle at breaking them apart as he could be at holding them together? It’s the worst thought Bucky has, because it’s the most feasible. Falling in love only to grow apart slowly at the seams until they’re too deep to notice the agony they’re putting each other through.
Geez, they aren’t even together and he’s already mourning them. He doesn’t go down the unforgiving plausibility of whether he even deserves Sam or not. Bucky already knows the answer.
Bucky isn’t caught up at the fact that he's in love with Sam- that’s not the terrifying part. He’s known there was something budding for Sam since he’d met the man with a clear enough head to memorize those brown eyes. It’s their potential to fall apart before they get somewhat of a concomitant existence.
He doesn’t have more time to think about it because Sam’s bedroom door just opened and shut with him outside. On auto-pilot, Bucky shifts to make room for him.
They’re sitting on the porch one day while Sam is in the yard throwing the shield, ever the perfectionist. He’s staring at the man through his lemonade glass when Sarah smacks him upside the head, not hard enough to hurt but so he feels it. Bucky rubs the spot anyway and frowns in her direction. “What was that for?”
“Stop eying my brother while I’m trying to eat lunch.”
Bucky knows a blush is rushing to his cheeks from the way she full-body laughs. “I’m just watching his technique.” He mutters as a weak argument, but she’s having none of it.
“Funny, when I catch him doing the same thing he says ‘I’m making sure he doesn’t get himself killed with that thing!’” Sarah says, in the terrible impression of Sam’s voice that makes them both snicker.
It was that small conversation that he decides that loving Sam is worth the potential misery of someday, somehow not being able to. Bucky doesn’t have the time to act on his resolution when they’re being put onto a plane to Port St. Lucie.
Their mission the next day is wrapping up, and it’s all too familiar to their fight with Walker. It reminds him of how he’d left Sam, bleeding and heaving for a breath, on the ground and dropping the shield next to his head. He walked through the door without looking back, leaving Walker conked out and a distressed Sam. The pang of regret rivals the strain in his arm and legs, pushing himself to his feet to hobbling over to the man. He doesn’t have time for those thoughts, not when Sam looks like he can barely move.
The stake-out turned impromptu battle left them unpreparred in every department. No backup, no suits, one gun each filled with six bullets per. Honestly, they’re both lucky to be alive.
To Bucky’s relief, the other man is awake and already trying to get on his feet. He leans over and pulls Sam up by his arms, letting him lean up against his own chest to secure his balance.
Sam blinking slowly at him, barely able to choke the words out. “You okay?”
The worry in Sam’s voice makes his heart ache. “I’m fine.” Bucky assures. It’s not a lie. Seeing and holding Sam in front of him alleviates the pain of any injury he could have attained during the shootout. “Are you?”
“I am now.”
There’s no way Sam is feeling the extent of his wounds. Bucky can physically see him bleeding, not gushing, but it’s enough to earn the concern. They should really get to the jet.
Except, Bucky can feel Sam’s puff of air against his neck from where the man is leaning into him, no doubt that Bucky is holding the grunt of his weight. Sam is letting himself be tended to and even Bucky isn’t dense enough to overlook that.
It’s a mess to get back to Delacroix. A plane ride that takes too long and bruises that hurt a little too much. Sam, the usual chatter-box is uncharacteristically quiet. Bucky knows that something is bothering him, tries to start the exchange but Sam remains reserved.
Sam, as Bucky has come to know, fills up silence with what is mistaken to be mindless colloquy. He asks questions about things that don’t matter until they do. It’s like he’s prying you open to find every little detail that makes you who you are. He always says that people are what they love, not who loves them. Every piece of a person is a mosaic of what’s important to them. Bucky often wonders what pieces he makes up of Sam’s facade, what he has left his mark upon. He adores all of the parts that Sam feels he has to hide from the limelight, the pieces he protects from the public’s malice with the utmost ferocity.
Loving Sam is facile but picking him apart is intricate. The tiny pieces of Sam are spread apart like puzzle pieces on a coffee table. Separating and grouping is the easy part. Putting them together on the other hand? It requires a delicate hand. Sam isn’t fragile but the world has been too harsh for too long. What’s the roughness worth is there is no clemency in compensation? Yeah, maybe Bucky isn’t the one that should get to give this to Sam, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try while he’s got the chance.
They don't go to their separate rooms that night. Bucky watches Sam's fidgeting by the kitchen island and rolls his eyes with a smile.
"What are you standing all the way over there for?" Bucky asks him.
"Just giving you some space." Sam answers casually, like he isn't setting his half-drunken mug of hot chocolate into the sink as he speaks.
Bucky can't help but chuckle at the implication. It’s incredulous that Sam believes enough to say that Bucky has ever wanted the miles of space between them. It’s almost mocking. "Get your ass over here."
"Woah, mister, is that how you speak to your Captain?"
"It is when the Captain is stupid."
Bucky wishes he had a camera to take a photo of the beautifully crooked grin Sam gives him. As he comes closer Bucky can see the gap in Sam's teeth that he absolutely adores. The stars were out tonight, the light of the moon is exceptionally bright as it streams in through the open window in the living room.
The kiss is quick and chaste and everything Bucky has ever wanted against his lips. He can feel the curl of Sam’s eyelashes against his own cheeks and it’s over all too soon.
"I don't usually put out on the first date." Sam scolds, but there’s no heat behind it. It's meant to be chastising but his words are quiet.
Sam slips underneath the blanket that Bucky is holding up for him, full bodies pressed against each other. He's the solid weight that Bucky knew he would be as he slips his own arms to rest on Sam's spine. It’s almost as though they are anchoring each other to the here and now.
"I just want to hold you, sweetheart." Bucky tells him softly, because it's true. Bucky has all the time in the world to press Sam roughly into a mattress and play a game of give and take. However, he's waited far too long to hold him gently. To show Sam how the hands that once hurt him will spend the rest of time softening his detriments. "Is that alright?"
Sam's voice is hoarse when he speaks next. "Okay."
So, he does. Bucky rubs a hand up and back down Sam's spine in a soothing motion. The leisurely ardor of the man slowly melting into being embraced is irreplaceable. Every few minutes he presses a kiss to the crown of Sam's head, who's cheek is resting lightly upon where his throat meets chest. It’s been too long since the both of them have been allowed the vulnerability of touching for just the closeness of each other and not ulterior motive of another person's antagonism. There’s a gentle euphoria replacing the biting rigidity between them.
The only thing Bucky thinks about tonight as he stares at the ceiling is Sam’s body meshing imperfectly with his own. The drowsy feeling creeps up to the edges of his vision but he pushes it away for now. Holding Sam feels fundamental. Bucky doesn’t know how he went so long in life without it.