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It was snowing that night. Outside their apartment, the ashy color of the streets had given away to the white of the snow; the ice was like a mirror to the street lamps that lined the outline of the sidewalks: they gave off a light so warm and powerful that were able to contrast the blue that threatened to win.
The trees, now bare, were standing there, silent, as the wind brushed their profiles and their branches: they were weak, you could make out only a mere skeleton, nothing else. Bucky found himself watching them with genuine attention through the window pane of his living room—the humidity of the night had covered the glass, Bucky could only make out a bunch of lights, but if he closed his eyes, his memories would guide him, helping him reconstruct that blurry, frail image of the night: he could see everything, but feel nothing. From time to time, you could hear some cars pass by, headed towards a destination unknown to him: Bucky felt trapped by a feeling filled with powerlessness and madness.
A couple of hours ago, he had woken up with a start because of a nightmare. He had opened his eyes and looked instinctively for Sam: he was there, just like he was every night. His brown face was turned to him and his strong arm was around his sweaty body. Bucky stood there, watching him; he remembered how a small part of him had wanted to wake him up, to let him touch him and explain what he had witness in his dream—the bodies and the worried faces of all those women, men and children that had hindered the Winter Soldier’s path.
He had dreamt of Karli—her big eyes were closed and a sad smile was making its way out. “Not even death is able to make us equal” she had said, clinging to her black and crimson mask. “And if life has made me an enemy in the eyes of people, death has made me weak.” Bucky had tried to get closer to her, but as soon as he did he found it impossible to touch her, and soon she disappeared, leaving him alone and armless, with his sins as his only guide.
A couple of years had passed since her death, but Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about that girl, and deep down, he knew Sam felt the same way—even if he always avoided talking about her and the day he had to carry her body in front of the cameras. At the time, Bucky had hated the consequences of her actions, but her death had left a wound inside him that he could no longer avoid: he was terrified. He feared that her fate would be his, too—“The serum didn’t change you, Buck. It never did.” Sam had whispered to him one night. Both men were laying down on their bed and Bucky’s head was resting against Sam’s naked chest. “You should stop chasing your doubts.” Bucky found himself clinging to Sam, letting himself envelope in his soothing voice. “Why don’t you try to become who you already are?”
His words had felt like a balm to his weary soul. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right” Sam had replied as he laughed and earned a scowl from the man next to him.
And now Bucky felt a tightness in his chest: the cold of the night, he noticed, had found shelter on his body, too. He closed his eyes as he tried to chase away his memories. He thought of his therapist’s words and tried to picture himself away from that room and Sam, summoning his safe place and imagining himself in the middle of a forest, looking for their green canopy—but he couldn’t. He felt short of breath—that same breath that had been taken away from him by the fall.
Terrified, Bucky opened his eyes and tried to list every object he could find: at first, his gaze fell upon the closed door and the porcelain vase next to it, then upon the framed pictures that portrayed him with Sam and their happy family; but when he stared at the couch in front of him he hid a small smile. He found himself thinking about that day when Sam, a year earlier, had come home, drawing Bucky’s attention. “I found it” he had happily announced as he was taking off his jacket. “It was on sale. We can finally rest our backs on something soft.”
Bucky had put down the bottle of the beer from which he was sipping and grimaced slightly. “It wasn’t necessary, Samuel.”
“Yes, it was” he replied as he rolled his eyes. “And don’t call me that, Buchanan.”
In that moment, Bucky thought of Sam’s excitement and his own gratitude as soon as he realized that he would never say anything bad to him: both of them knew Bucky needed time, he wasn’t used to posses something: an object, an apartment—control over his own body and mind, a relationship. Thus, he let Sam fix their house and buy all the forniture they needed. Sometimes, Sam would find himself asking for his opinion and Bucky would answer him only with a shake of head to make sure Sam knew what he thought. As he filled the apartment with tables and chairs, bedside tables and paintings, and their nephews’s drawings, Bucky gave himself to the same excitement that had overwhelmed Sam: one morning, he woke up before Sam and left him a note.
When he came home, Sam was still sleepy and greeted him with a confused look on his face. Bucky didn’t reply, he only left a kiss to his lips and, after he had placed the grocery bags on the kitchen’s table, he showed Sam his latest purchase: it was a wooden model, nothing more. It depicted a motorcycle from the late 40s, perhaps it was a worthless thing, but not to Bucky. To him, it was precious—a treasure that showed a part of him and his past.
And now that he had his cerulean eyes pointed at that wooden model again, he felt lonesome, unarmed, frail. He almost felt the floor under his feet tremble, forming a chasm—it swallowed him whole: soon, Bucky felt Death’s steady hands around his throat again. Now that he had everything, he would learn to lose what he treasured the most.
A tear ran down his face. At that faint touch he closed his own eyes and thought of the promise Sam had made months ago: “If you fall, I’ll be there to catch you.”
Bucky brought a hand on his face as soon as he remembered that moment: Sam’s words were a promise, a symbol to their bond—Sam, he thought, unable to hide his own feelings. He still remembered their first encounter and the fights that had followed, and the first time he had understood that he would follow that man everywhere. For a long time he had lived a lie.
Bucky left out a sigh, letting himself be guided by the flow of his thoughts. He found himself thinking about his family and the first time his nephews called him “uncle”, he remembered when he met Sam’s gaze right away and how he had understood his thoughts without the other ever expressing himself out loud; he remembered the sea and the way the light reverberated against the waves’ crests, and how they crushed against the shores and their family’s boat; he found himself thinking about Sarah and her bright smile, how she and her brother made him feel: alive and safe. And now, he felt far away from everybody: from his family and Sam, and from himself, too. He couldn’t get a hold on his being: Bucky felt like a criminal trapped in someone else’s body. Suddenly, its language felt foreign to him: he couldn’t tell what it commanded, what it yearned and feared. Bucky could almost see himself from within; he was gasping for air and for a hand to bound him to the same reality he was running away from.
He got up and reached for the window, but as soon as he touched the glass he let out a shaking sob: he couldn’t feel anything. Will it always be like this?, he thought. Will it?
“Buck” he heard a familiar voice whisper to him.
Bucky tried to turn around and follow that melodic sound, but he felt trapped, as if there was a cloud of smoke around him: he couldn’t see or hear anything. Everything was out of his reach and grasp. “Buck” he heard again, Buck Buck Buck—he couldn’t make out his surrounding. Soon, darkness enveloped his body like a coat. His breathing quickened and the tinkling sound of the dog tags he always wore around his neck became more and more indistinct, muffled. He was blind and deaf, pain was the only thing he could feel. Then, he sensed something—a hand, a brush, a caress. And as he lifted his head he found himself genuflected on the floor.
Bucky gulped and met Sam’s gaze. “How long?”
Sam waited, “a couple of minutes. I tried to call you but...” He clenched his jaw as Bucky let out a frustrated sigh, unable to hold Sam’s piercing gaze. But when he offered him a blanket, Bucky nodded, giving himself to the warmth of Sam’s fingertips.
“Stay,” he said, resting his hand on Sam’s brown one and leaning on his touch.
“Are you sure?”
Bucky nodded and let Sam sit next to him. They stayed silent as they stared at the urban landscape in front of them and heard the cars pass by.
“Before we fell asleep I forgot to tell you something.” Bucky hummed, letting him know that he was listening. “Sarah and the kids will join us this Sunday. Since there’s a new playground in our neighborhood, I thought of taking them there and have some fun. What do you think?”
Bucky lowered his head, but as soon as he felt Sam’s hand on his arm he lifted it up.
“Did you hear me?”
Bucky licked his lower lip, then he followed Sam’s hand with his gaze and pulled it away from his skin. “Yes.”
Sam sighed and tilted his head. “Did you dream about them again? Bucky—”
“I dreamt of Karli.” At that confession Sam fell silent, eyes wide open. “I didn’t mean to—“
Sam shook his head. “It’s not your fault. Her death... It’s not your fault or the Winter Soldier’s.”
“If it’s not my fault, then it’s not yours either.”
Sam didn’t reply, and when he asked him about his dream, Bucky explained it to him.
“The last thing I saw were her eyes, but it was weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were...” Bucky shifted his gaze to his lap. “Her eyes were mine. I mean, they were the Winter Soldier’s.”
Sam stayed silent for a couple of minutes, Bucky assumed he was thinking about what he had just admitted. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You needed to rest.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, next time make a better excuse, ancient man.”
“Don’t call me that” he said with a scowl as he covered his metallic hand with his blanket.
Sam chuckled as Bucky smiled. “I wish things were simpler” Sam confessed. “But they aren’t, they never will. Bucky,” he continued, caressing his right hand and entwining their fingers together. “To be able to live in the present, we must free ourselves from the past and its memories.”
“What if...” Bucky whispered as his voice grew more hoarse. “What if Karli’s fate is mine, too? What if one day all of this” he said, pointing their entwined hands towards himself, “will consume me? I wouldn’t know, not until it happened. I don’t know what might happen. What if one day—“
“It won’t happen.”
“You can’t know that.”
“You’re wrong” the other replied, lowering his gaze so Bucky could see him. “And you know why? Because I know you, I know who you are. You’d never do that.”
Everything went quiet: the cars, the wind and the snow, it was just a distant memory. And as soon as Bucky felt Sam‘s tender touch on his hand again he closed his eyes. “Aren’t you afraid that I might turn into him at any moment?”
“No. And you?”
Bucky stared. “Sometimes. Those stupid words... they don’t work anymore, but sometimes I think he might show up.”
“It won’t happen.”
“And if it will?”
“Then, we will be there to help you. Me, Sarah and the kids.”
Bucky didn’t reply, he just leaned forward and left a kiss on Sam’s lips. Then, he rested his forehead against the other’s. They stood there, staring at each other in silence. Bucky took advantage of that precious moment to observe every small detail: he stared at Sam’s eyes and his dark, long eyelashes, and noticed how they caressed his cheeks tenderly. He felt lost and overcome by a crushing and brutal feeling: it was tenderness and violence, a consuming passion. Bucky could feel Sam’s fresh breath against his own skin—he thought of the lights he had seen earlier and how they felt like a fever dream now.
“Why did you cover it up?” Sam asked after a while.
Bucky inhaled deeply as he moved away from him. “I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes, I am.”
When Sam looked up he met Bucky’s gaze. “You know you’re safe with me, right?”
“I know” Bucky replied. His gaze wandered over his arm as he thought about his own unwieldy body: he didn’t used to have such a complicated relationship with it, he still remembered the confidence he felt in his youth—how his body used to respond to his commands and needs. But now, it felt like a cluster of different and bizarre parts: they didn’t know how to follow the flow of his thoughts, and if they did, Bucky would feel like an impostor: he didn’t know how to stand on his toes without feeling embarrassed of himself. He remembered the first times he had tried to respond to Sam’s touches, how he started to hide his own grimace once he realized how clumsy he was—“You’re not clumsy” his therapist had said one day. “After the fall, you didn’t get to have control over your own body. It’s okay to feel like this, Bucky. You’ll overcome this, too.”
At those words, he‘d bowed his head and avoided her stare. His hands where on his lap and his back on the backrest of the sofa: he knew his position was awkward, but he didn’t know what to do with his hands or legs: after all that had happened, he was left with a body he didn’t know anymore. And the only few times he didn’t feel like his movements were too slow or too fast were during fights—but he had to remind himself that that wasn’t Bucky, it was the serum inside him and the training skills of the Winter Soldier.
And now that he was finally free, he had to stick to a routine and take care of his body as if he had never lost it in the first place, but when it was too much, he would let Sam wash his hair or prepare his meals. He was grateful for Sam and his silence, he had never pushed him or made him feel as if he were a broken thing: he knew, deep down, what Bucky felt—the exhaustion and chaos that had followed. And now, Sam would say, the only thing left to do was heal.
“It’s not like that—believe me.” Sam gave him a sympathetic look as Bucky shook his head violently. “Sometimes... sometimes I can’t bear to look at it. It repels me.” At that confession, Sam’s expression shifted slightly—he was surprised and at loss of words. Bucky wanted to put his hands on his shoulders and shake him up, make him listen to the beats of his pounding soul: for a long time, Bucky hadn’t known himself. He was the Winter Soldier, his only purpose was to serve the greater good, but now that he was left with nothing but regrets, he didn’t have the strength to fight and find what had always been there: a light, his past self. It was there, he could feel it, but it was out of his grasp. “It disgusts me. Sometimes when I look at it, it’s not my arm that I see but what I have done, who I have killed... what I have lost. And I think, will it always be like this?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me, yes, it matters.”
Bucky looked at Sam stoically, but when he felt Sam’s hand on his again he felt his soul shudder at that touch. “I wish I could tell you that it will change, that you won’t think about it anymore but it would be a lie, Buck, and you deserve better than this. The nightmares won’t go, I still have them. Believe me, I do. But one day you’ll realize that pain is only temporary: behind a bad day, there’s a good day to look forward to. You have to live the moment and bound yourself to the present. What do you want, Bucky?”
Bucky tightened his grip. “I want to be free.”
Sam smiled. “And you will be. Remember what happened with Zemo? How did you feel when you showed him mercy?”
“I felt like myself. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time.”
“And now,” Sam said, looking at Bucky. “What did change?”
“I don’t know” Bucky said sincerely, surprising himself. “I... I love my new life and family. I love everything about it, but sometimes I can’t help but feel stuck in the past.”
“And it’s okay” Sam replied tenderly. Then, he lifted Bucky’s metallic hand and drew it to his lips, brushing it tenderly. Finally, he left a gentle kiss. “You don’t have to cover it up, you know. Not with me.”
Bucky felt his body shake. “I need time.”
“It’s okay” Sam said. “We have plenty of time.”
Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, then he rolled his eyes. “Stop being so romantic, it’s disgusting.”
Sam raised an eyebrow and chuckled, showing the gap between his front teeth. “Are you implying that I’m romantic? Really, Buck? Yesterday morning you came home with a plate full of croissants.”
Bucky shrugged. “I was hungry.”
“You didn’t eat anything.”
“That’s because I was hungry when I brought them, then when I came home I realized I wasn’t anymore” he said, popping his tongue. “Easy.”
Sam grunted as he covered his face with his hand. “You are so full of yourself.”
“I don’t see why it has to be a flaw.”
Sam stared at him and then laughed. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear what you just said, man.”
Bucky smiled, leaning forward. “Want me to repeat it just for you?” he asked, whispering those words to Sam.
Sam grimaced as he put his hand on Bucky’s face to shove him off. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Unfortunately.”
At that joke, Bucky found himself laughing. Suddenly, the pain he had experienced earlier felt like a lost memory. “Thank you” he said after a few minutes. It was hard for him to express himself through words instead of actions: but he knew Sam deserved that.
He remembered how, after they had shared their first kiss, Sam had made him sit on the couch just to ask him what he wanted and what he was comfortable with: “I don’t mind, Buck” he had said, “I want honesty. If you ain’t ready, then it’s okay. I will wait for you as long as it takes.” And when Bucky had told him that he wasn’t worthy of all that, Sam had rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m falling for your stupid white ass.” At that joke, Bucky had bursted into laughter and, after a couple of minutes, he had told Sam his needs: he still needed time to get used to affection and tenderness, but he could picture himself in a better relationship with himself sometime in the future.
He thought of that now and how far he had come: how he was able to let Sam touch him without feeling his skin burn and how, now, he let Sam see him naked. He thought of his soft lips against the skin of his scarred body, how he would travel it with the bridge of his nose as he planted small kisses against his throat and arms, how Bucky would bring his hand to his rosy lips and think: yes, yes, I can heal.
“Don’t thank me, ancient man. I didn’t do anything, I only listened” he heard Sam’s voice say.
“I know and I’m grateful for it.”
Sam nodded, then he got up and offered his hand to Bucky. When he accepted it, Sam drew him close. “Do you want to watch something?”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“I don’t care” he said, putting his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “We can sleep on the couch.”
Bucky smiled and left a kiss on Sam’s cheek. “Okay.”
“You sure?”
Bucky nodded, letting Sam guide him to the couch. And as Sam lay down next to him and Bucky rested his head on his shoulder, he felt a warm feeling on his chest: it was starting.