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The photo in his hand was stained, crumpled, wrinkled, and worn, having been through nearly eighty years of heartache, pain, and war. It was the only thing he had left.
“Can’t sleep?”
Sam’s voice came from behind him, deep and warm and a little husky at two in the morning. Bucky knew even without turning that his gaze was piercing. He said nothing.
“Let me see that,” Sam said, plucking the photo out of his hand and giving Bucky little choice in the matter.
“Hey,” Bucky said weakly, making a halfhearted attempt to snatch it back from Sam as he sat down on the bed next to him. The small room was dark, illuminated faintly by the neon lights of Madripoor, shining even in the middle of the night. Sounds floated up from the street far below, laughter and clinking glasses and in the distance, a thumping bass.
Sam was silent, staring down at the photo in his hands. Bucky noticed how he held it gently, and a small part of him was grateful for Sam’s care.
He knew Sam had seen that picture before; it was practically the first thing you saw when you walked into the Smithsonian exhibit. But this was the original.
He didn’t remember when exactly it was taken, but then again those months with the Howling Commandos always seemed to blur together in his memory. He had been impatiently watching Steve, who was preparing to give yet another interview. Bucky was waiting restlessly to ship out for their next mission. Everything was always better when it was just him and Steve and the Commandos, out in the field, where the worries of home felt far away. To his surprise, the reporter had asked if he’d like to be included, Captain America’s best friend!, and at the hopeful look on Steve’s face, he couldn’t say no. At the time, there wasn’t much he would have refused Steve. Later, the reporter sent a copy of the interview, and Bucky was just happy that she had remembered to include a photo for him, too.
As Sam studied the picture, Bucky studied Sam. The neon signs from the street cast strangely brilliant shadows across the room, painting it in hues of deep blues and soft purples. Sam was lit with a faint glow, the planes of his face reflecting pink, outlining his cheekbones, his strong jaw. His eyes were dark and shining, staring at the photo as if he were searching for something.
“Sometimes I wish he were dead,” Bucky said, breaking the silence.
Sam looked up sharply at that, their eyes meeting.
“You don’t really mean that,” he said, just the barest hint of a Louisiana drawl coloring his voice.
He turned the photo over in his hands, fingers brushing the words scrawled messily across the back.
Steve + Bucky, 1945. Manhattan?
“No,” Bucky sighed. “But it would make it easier.”
“I know. I’m pissed at him too.” Sam let out a low chuckle, the way you laugh when there’s nothing remotely funny. “What an asshole.”
Bucky reached across with his good hand, taking the photo back from Sam.
“A real punk,” he said quietly.
He stared down at the photo, hard. It truly was all he had left of his life before— before HYDRA, yes, but even more importantly, before whatever the hell his life was now. At least then, in spite of the Avengers’ chaos, he’d had Steve to help him pick up the pieces. Now all he had was a photograph, not even a real goodbye to hold on to. Not even a shield.
But he had already made the choice to forgive Sam for that, and in the end it wasn’t Sam he was mad at.
Bucky clenched his jaw to keep his tears at bay, staring bitterly at the photo of him and Steve. He felt a touch on his metal forearm and looked up into Sam’s gaze, concerned and frustrated and intense. Again, Sam seemed to be searching for something in Bucky’s eyes, just as he had looked when he held the photo.
Bucky swallowed. They were sitting so close that their knees were barely touching, Sam’s hand curled around his arm, his eyes boring into Bucky’s. Almost against his will, he glanced down at Sam’s lips, his gaze flickering quickly back up and over his features before once more meeting Sam’s steady stare.
“He left you.”
Sam’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.
“He left us,” Bucky corrected, and he couldn’t stop his voice from breaking on the last word.
Slowly, Sam ran his fingers down Bucky’s arm, ever so gently caressing its ridges and interlocking plates before taking Bucky’s hand in his own, weaving their fingers together.
Bucky looked down at their joined hands, at the stark contrast between bright metal and dark skin, then back up at Sam.
The moment stretched between them, long and unbroken. Bucky could see his own hurt reflected in Sam’s face, his own fear and confusion and anger. But also, hope, the realization dawning over him. Hope, and longing, and something else he couldn’t name as he sat there, searching Sam’s gaze desperately for some kind of clue as to what the future held for them.
“ Sam... ” Bucky whispered, no idea as to what he’d say next, but it didn’t matter. In the next instant, Sam was kissing him, hard, with so much feeling that Bucky didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it sooner. His free hand came up to cradle Sam’s cheek as the other man wrapped an arm around the small of his back, tugging them closer together.
Bucky kissed him back as hard as he could, letting their embrace wash away his pain. Each kiss felt as if a weight were being lifted from his chest, and he marveled at his own ignorance. How had he not realized that this was what he felt for Sam, all this time. It was different than with Steve, that was for sure, but suddenly the years of teasing and nagging and joking sharpened into clarity. Flirting.
Sam was the first one to break away, breathing heavily. Bucky realized dimly that he was now sitting in Sam’s lap, but before he could even think to be embarrassed, Sam cupped his face in both of his hands, his expression more tender than Bucky would have thought possible. Gently, Sam brushed away the tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen, wordlessly caressing his cheek. Instinctively, Bucky leaned into the touch, wiping his eyes, and he felt himself smile faintly.
Sam’s answering smile was golden, the small gap between his front teeth suddenly unbearably endearing. Bucky felt a fierce tide of affection wash over him, and he wrapped his arms around Sam, hugging him close.
“So, can I call you ‘Buck’ now?” Sam asked, and even without seeing his face Bucky knew he was smirking.
“We’ll see,” he said, pulling back to give Sam an exasperated look. “Right now, we need to go to sleep.”
“Wow, Barnes,” Sam said as Bucky stood, pulling them both to their feet. “Already trying to get me to bed, I see how it is.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, giving Sam’s shoulder a shove before slipping under the blanket.
“I said sleep . Not sleep together.”
“I know what you meant,” Sam teased, although a moment later he frowned and bent down. Standing, he held Bucky’s photo, looking across at him with a question in his eyes.
Wordlessly, Bucky held out a hand and Sam passed it over, sliding into bed next to him.
“You know, maybe we don’t need him,” Sam said quietly, looking over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky turned his head, and they were once again just inches apart, gazing at each other.
“Maybe we can figure it out on our own.”
Bucky smiled then, a real grin. It felt like his first in a long time. Maybe his first since that photo was even taken.
“Maybe we can,” he said, and the two of them sat there for a long instance, just smiling at each other.
Sam broke the moment, flopping down on the bed.
“Don’t be getting sappy on me, now, White Panther,” he warned as Bucky gently set the photo down on the nightstand, taking an extra moment to straighten it.
He laid down too, curling up next to Sam and tangling their fingers together.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, eyes already falling shut.
“Good,” Sam whispered, and Bucky could hear the smile in his voice. “Because I still hate you.”
