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It drives him crazy. Absolutely crazy.
Because there are moments, entire minutes when Bucky sits too close, locks eyes with him too long. Moments when he knows, just knows that Bucky feels the pull between the two of them. He knows he feels it because the second the string stretches just tight enough to start to break, Bucky walks out.
Bucky just walks away from him, and it’s driving Sam nuts.
And Sam’s been patient. Sam’s been good. Sam’s been letting Bucky set the pace because Bucky is traumatised and sad and ‘working on it’. He is working on it, is the thing. He’s working towards something. He’s getting better, his shoulders are hunching less, he’s more confident in the field. There’s less and less doubt in his eyes. He smiles, not for long, and not often, but more than he ever has since Steve brought him into their lives.
So Sam’s been waiting, for a long time, for Bucky to get to a place where he can lean in that last little bit and take what Sam knows he wants. A man knows, when someone wants another man the way he knows Bucky wants him. He knows, because he wants him the same way. He can feel it in every inch of his skin, head to toe, heart and soul. He can read it in Bucky’s eyes and the tilt of his head and the curve of his body towards Sam, in the way his pupils dilate as the crackle in the air becomes insufferable.
He can always tell the moment Bucky kills it too. His eyes closing, taking a deep breath in through his nose, pulling infinitesimally back. He can’t quite read what the emotions are in Bucky’s eyes because he puts the walls up, but Sam’s pretty sure there’s a healthy dose of sadness, fear, and anger. Bucky hides all of that behind shuttered eyes, makes up some lame excuse. Bucky claims he’s tired, or he has somewhere to be, or sometimes just not even saying anything before pulling his legs up underneath him and standing to leave.
So Sam’s been patient, because Bucky is a wild, feral cat, and he’s got to decide on his own when to sniff the fingers that have been feeding him for the past year. Because the thing is, you don’t pet a cat. You let a cat tell you how they want to be pet. Otherwise his hair’s gonna stand on end and he’s gonna yowl and turn tail and run, never to be seen from again. So Sam waits, and lets Bucky go, and does his damndest not to hold it against him.
This time, though, Bucky doesn’t do that.
This time, Bucky closes his eyes, stiff as a board when Sam leans over the table to look at him in the middle of a joke, and grits his teeth. “Stop it.”
Sam’s mouth closes audibly, teeth clacking to punctuate his surprise, taken aback by the tone. As snappy as Bucky can be, as sarcastic and caustic and cantankerous as he usually is, he’s never been harsh in a moment like this. He’s always been quiet and strong and soft, and simply extricated himself from the situation.
“I’m sorry?”
Bucky opens his eyes and Sam feels a chill run through him, at the ugly bitterness pouring from Bucky’s normally kind eyes. “Just. Please. Stop.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” Sam repeats and then holds up a hand for Bucky to remain silent. “And what I mean by i’m sorry has nothing to do with an apology, what i mean is what the fuck crawled up your butt, cranky?”
“You gotta stop, Sam, you gotta,” Bucky pleads, lowering his head in supplication. Begging. Pleading. His voice wobbles just slightly. “Please, you’ve gotta stop wanting me, Sam.”
Sam feels gut punched. He feels like all the air’s been knocked out of his lungs. All of the adrenaline and fear and relief he feels before he pulls the ripcord for his parachute if it’s needed. Not knowing if it’s going to work. Not knowing if it can stop this free fall. And finally, the relief of letting go and letting God, because he can’t turn back now.
“Wanting you.” It’s a question but it’s not, because Sam won’t deny it. Sam is not going to deny that he wants Bucky because that’s a lie, and Sam won’t lie to Bucky, not ever. Not after so many people have. He asks though, because Bucky said it. Bucky actually said it, and he can’t figure out why he’s said it now but not before.
Bucky’s shoulders hunch in on himself, fear taking up most of the expression in his eyes now. “Yeah, Sam. I can smell you.”
Sam leans back, putting a bit more distance between them. “Smell.”
Bucky nods. “Yeah. I hear, I see, I taste, I….” He swallows. “Smell. I can smell you.”
Sam’s frown deepens. “Smell me.” He raises an eyebrow, tilts his voice up just slightly as he tries for humor. “You saying I stink?”
Bucky folds over on himself a little, hugging his arms to his chest looking pained. “No, God, you smell amazing.” Bucky reaches up to run his metal fingers through his hair roughly. “Jesus, Sam, I’m talking about pheromones, how turned on you get for me sometimes. I… you gotta stop.”
Sam nods, jaw clenching tightly as embarrassed anger rolls through him. “As many hurtful things you’ve said to me over the past few years, Buck, I never thought you were intentionally cruel before now.”
“Aw, Sam, come on,” Bucky grinds out, looking miserable as he finally looks up again to meet Sam’s eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” Sam asks, eyebrow arching without amusement. Forgotten Chinese take out lays only half eaten in it’s cartons. “So instead of getting up and running away, like you usually do,” Sam follows with, leaning closer towards the table, towards Bucky. “Tonight you decided to humiliate me. Why?”
It’s really damn good Chinese too. The kind that can only come from a hole in the wall type of place.
“I’m not, Sam.” Bucky sighs, rubbing his hands roughly over his face. “Come on, you know it’s not like that.”
“Not like what, exactly,” Sam asks, barely keeping himself from flipping the table over. The anger is so strong and so sudden it damn near scares him. “Come on, Buck, use your words.”
He could drown in Bucky’s eyes, no longer shuttered, no longer hiding, instead just reflecting immense pain back at Sam. “You gotta know.”
“Gotta know what,” Sam grouses out, reaching over the table to grab Bucky’s hand as Bucky starts to stand up. “Oh no. No no. You're not leaving.” He shakes his head, pulls Bucky unwillingly towards him, chair sliding loudly over the laminate flooring. “We’ve been dancing around not talking about this for months. You started the discussion, so we’re gonna talk about it. Answer me.”
“You know I want you too,” Bucky whispers, giving up the struggle, looking down at their intertwined fingers defeatedly.
Sam shakes his head at him, anger still in his tone even as he feels it begin to ebb away slowly but surely. “Then why tell me to stop,” he asks. “Why do you always run away?”
“Sam,” Bucky says warningly, starting to push up from the table again. Sam yanks him back down hard.
“What we got, Buck, it’s too good,” he says passionately. Squeezing Bucky’s hand he pulls him as close as he can get him. “What we got right now is too good, imagine what it could be if we--”
Bucky’s shaking his head no, already, using his metallic hand to gently pry Sam’s fingers off of his arm. “No.”
“No,” Sam repeats.
Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t make me break your fingers. I can’t be more to you.”
“You can’t,” Sam repeats, not letting go. Bucky will never break his fingers, he can threaten all he wants.
“We can’t,” Bucky says, breathing hard, voice pitching up just slightly. “Sam, come on!”
“Why,” Sam asks, standing and letting Bucky’s arm go, crowding into his space, poking a finger into his broad chest. “Why can’t we, huh?”
“You know why,” Bucky grits out, standing to mimic the gesture. “You know.”
“Why,” Sam shouts back, throwing his hands out in disbelief.
“I’m not good enough for you,” Bucky barks out, his face crumbling the second it’s out of his mouth. “Jesus Christ Sam, you know I’m no good for you.”
Sam takes a step back, then another, feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of his chest. “Bucky--”
“Sam you deserve better than anything I have left to give you,” Bucky says, hunched over as he clenches his fists around the top of the chair hard enough to splinter it. “You deserve so much more than me, Sam, so you gotta stop. Stop it. Let me go, stop wanting me, you’re killing me!”
“I--” Sam takes a deep breath, watching Bucky’s jaw clench, listening to the chair creak. “God damn, Buck, I am so fucking tired of your self-hatred. That’s you, man. That’s not me.”
“You deserve someone that will make you happy, Sam, not make things harder for you,” Bucky says, panting slightly, emotional and wrecked and Sam loves him so damn much he sees red from the rage, rage against everyone and everything that had made Bucky feel this way.. “I-- I take my shit out on you, and I yell at you for no reason, and, Sam , I just have so much anger and hurt and darkness.”
“We’ve all got darkness, Buck.”
Bucky stands and walks further into the den, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not like this.”
“You don’t know my darkness,” Sam says, leaning back against the table and watching Bucky pace. “So don’t presume to know whether yours trumps it.”
Bucky leans against the back of the couch, relenting a bit. “I’m not trying to belittle your experiences, Sam.”
“Oh I know you’re not trying to,” Sam says. “You just are.”
Bucky hangs his head, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m just saying you deserve better. Someone fun, and funny. Someone that makes you happy.”
“You make me happy, Buck,” Sam says, low and barely audible. He shrugs then, huffing a soft laugh. “You also piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever met, but when you’re not... You make me happy.”
Bucky looks up at him, a smile threatening before he locks it down again, shuttering his eyes. “You should be with someone…” He sighs, shrugging. “I don’t know, you shoulda been with someone like Steve. Steve was everything good in this world, Steve was happy and fun and he made you laugh and he never lashed out at you the way I always have.”
Sam nods. “So Steves a unicorn in this scenario?” He walks forward, stopping a few feet in front of Bucky. “He shoot rainbows out of his ass too?”
Bucky meets his gaze, brows drawn together, looking frustrated. “Sam.”
“Steve had issues, Buck. He had his own version of hell. He had his own dark, man.” Sam reaches behind him and pulls the chair over, sitting back down in it and settling in for what promises to be a long damn conversation. He may as well get comfortable. “You forget, I lived in his pocket for two years while we were on the run, him and me and Nat. Steve was not all light and airy, not all the time. Probably not ever, really.”
“More-so than I’ll ever be,” Bucky says.
“Buck.”
“Steve was ten times the man I’ve ever been. Will ever be.” Bucky says.
“Okay enough,” Sam says, reaching forward and wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s tense forearm. “Come on, come here.” Bucky relents fairly easily actually, allowing Sam to pull him towards him until he’s settled standing between Sam’s legs. “You gotta get a healthier perspective on yourself, man.”
Bucky looks down at him, stormy blue eyes flooded with emotions. Self-hatred and anger, bitterness, but beyond that, far and away much greater than that, sadness. “I know exactly who I am.”
“Bucky all of this guilt, all of this darkness, it wasn’t you,” Sam says, squeezing Bucky’s arm. “You were tortured and abused and brainwashed and manipulated. That’s not you, this ,” Sam says, pulling Bucky forward. There’s nowhere for him to go, but he just needs Bucky closer. “This is who you are. Who you are with me.”
Bucky’s shaking, just the slightest bit, just barely a tremor under Sam’s fingers, when he speaks. “You don’t get it Sam. It was me. Part of me was in there.” He tries to pull away from Sam but Sam holds tight, won’t let him. “Part of him is in me now and part of me was in him then.” He meets Sam’s eyes, offering up his soul for Sam to see the horrible, ugly truth inside. “Enough of me was in there, hiding, enough for Steve to grab ahold of to pull me out. You know what that means, right?”
“It means you’re strong, Bucky. It means even after all they did to you, after all the trauma you took on, you still found a way to keep part of yourself locked away.”
Bucky closes his eyes. “No. No, Sam, it means, all the shit I did, all the people I killed, all the things I did for them…” He shuts his mouth tightly, jaw clenching as he swallows several times, fighting back tears that Sam wishes he would just let free. Just let them go, here with him. “Part of me was in there, sitting back, giving in.”
“Bucky, they fried your brain and threw you on ice,” Sam says, reaching out with his other hand to hold Bucky’s hip. “It’s called conditioning. They systematically broke you down piece by piece until your only choice was to lock away whatever was left of who you were and hold tight to it.”
“Sam.”
“I watched my dad die, Bucky,” Sam says, steeling himself for the worst thing he’s ever had to talk about. The thing he doesn’t talk about. The thing he never, ever wants to talk about. “He stepped in the middle of a fight that wasn’t his, and they killed him for it. I watched his eyes fade.”
Bucky’s eyes are open now as he looks down at Sam and his arms immediately unfold to reach over and cup Sam’s cheek, soft and hesitant, as if it were something he’d always wanted to do but could never find the courage. “Sam.”
“I know darkness, Bucky. I coulda gone down a real ugly path, and I almost did.” He swallows, refusing to look away from Bucky’s eyes. “Choices were made. Bad ones. I did things. Things I’m not proud of, things I’m still trying to atone for. Things that made me abandon my sister because I was too busy being a chicken shit and running away.”
Bucky’s thumb wipes away a tear Sam didn’t even know had fallen down. “You’ve never said anything about your dad.”
“I don’t talk about it,” Sam says. “But do you see what you just did, when I told you? Nothing else mattered to you, you immediately went to comfort me, because that’s who you are,” he says, reaching up and grabbing Bucky’s hands, holding onto them. “Anybody filled with only darkness can’t do this, Bucky. If your heart is filled with darkness there’s no room for love.”
“I never said I didn’t love you,” Bucky whispers. “Only that you deserved better than I can give you.”
“We all got our shit Buck,” Sam says, holding on tight enough to Bucky’s hands that it surely must hurt. Or would, were Bucky the same as he’d been back in the 40’s before Germany, before the war, before Zola. “All of us. Me, you, Steve. It ain’t about whose shit was worse, whose shit was darker, or whose shit matters more.”
Bucky lowers himself to his knees and Sam feels his heart clench and flip and do all manner of crazy things as he looks down at him. “Your shit matters,” Bucky says, leaning up until his face is as even to Sam’s as he can from his lower position. “It matters to me.”
“And your shit matters to me,” Sam says, pulling his hand out of Bucky’s to cup his face, meeting his eyes. “And that’s the thing, Bucky. That? Is all that matters.”
“I don’t wanna pull you down with me,” Bucky says, leaning forward, giving in even as he still tries to argue.
“I won’t let you,” Sam says. “I’m gonna pull you up with me. And when my shit catches up with me, and it threatens to pull you down too?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding and leaning closer still. “Okay,” he says on a breath, and then leans that last little bit and kisses Sam. Takes the breath right out of Sam’s lungs but somehow fills him up with something else, something better, something stronger. “Okay.