Archive of Our Own

“Ow,  fuck,”  grumbles Bucky, as he shuts the door to the apartment. He walks into the living area and drops his satchel on the sofa, kneading at his left shoulder with the heel of his right palm.  

“That you,  sunshine?”  calls Sam sarcastically, poking his head around the corner from the bathroom. He strolls out in only sweatpants, drying his upper half with a towel.  

“How’d you know it was me?” jokes Bucky. “Could’a been a burglar or something.”  

“Nah, I’d recognize the way you groan ‘fuck’ anywhere,” Sam smirks, going in for a quick kiss. The brunet doesn’t hesitate to swing his right arm around his boyfriend’s neck and shoulders to keep him close.   

“That wasn’t my sexy ‘fuck’ though, that was my annoyed ‘fuck,’” he points out, pressing a couple sweeter pecks to Sam’s lips. “Thought you’d learned the difference!” His boyfriend grins against his mouth, chuckling,  

“Don’t worry, I’m well-acquainted with your vast lexicon of curses and what each pitch implies by this point.” Sam breaks away and heads for the fridge in their well-stocked kitchen.   

Bucky and Sam picked out a new apartment together just over a month ago after finally getting tired of going back and forth between both of their smaller, single-person apartments. In splitting his time between D.C. and New York, Bucky usually didn’t mind going over to Sam’s place since he could do a lot of Hydra work remotely—given Sam’s place was walking-distance from SHIELD, that benefitted them both—but sometimes with the stacks and stacks of hard-copy paperwork he  still  hasn’t finished cataloging and digitizing yet, he’d need to stay at Pemberley. No way he was going to haul all that crap to Sam’s and let it clutter up his place too.  

So, they ended up choosing something more suited to two people in a building only  two  more blocks away from SHIELD than Sam’s old place. He said the extra blocks would be nothing, but sometimes when Sam’s feeling particularly worn-out, he doesn’t hesitate to whine about his ‘longer commute’ to work. And the guy teases  Bucky  for occasional bratty behavior.   

We really are fucking made for each other, aren’t we?  Bucky snickers to himself.  

Sam grabs two bottles of iced tea and tosses one in Bucky’s direction. He tries to lift his prosthetic arm in time to catch it, but a sharp pain pulses in his shoulder and he fumbles it.   

Ever since Bucky started seeing a physical therapist about his arm and shoulder, he’s gradually gotten a better handle on his chronic and phantom pains—he's even made a lot of progress improving his strength and range of motion in the limb. He has a simple series of daily exercises he does on his own to keep that momentum going. Sam used to ask him nearly every day if he was doing them when he first started, but quickly ditched asking in favor of adding his own little ‘hidden techniques’ into their routine—tossing something Bucky’s way for him to try catching with the weaker arm is one of those.   

“Shit,” mutters Bucky, leaning down to pick the bottle up from the floor. He makes the mistake of reaching for it with the left arm again and flinches when he feels it twinge. Grabbing it with the right instead, he stands to find Sam crooking his head to the side.  

“Damn, broke your catch streak,” he comments. “We were on 11 days in-a-row. You’re definitely getting better at it though.” Bucky frowns as he sets the tea bottle on the counter and presses his right palm over the shoulder. He rubs gently, tracing the old scarring from where he was  stabbed  by that fucking tree through his shirt. Sam probably takes his lack of response as a sign something’s off.  

“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving a few steps closer. “Is it hurting again?”   

Over the past week, Bucky’s noticed a steadily-growing discomfort emanating from inside his shoulder around where the socket connects. His physical therapist warned him overdoing the exercises could cause excess soreness, but he hasn’t been doing them more than once a day as directed. He’s tried taking over-the-counter pain meds, but they don’t seem to be helping much—and after all the work he and his regular therapist put into weaning him off Vicodin and getting sober, he can’t risk taking anything much stronger than that.   

Wish someone had warned me just how much fucking work it would be to put my life back together before I screwed myself up so badly,  he muses, his internal voice laced with irony.   

Bucky sighs and brushes Sam off. “It’s nothing, really. Just a little sore. I probably overworked it or something—no big deal.” His boyfriend fixes him with a stern look.  

“You’re sure?”  

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, I’m fine, Sam.”  

“Okay...but you’ll tell me if you stop being fine, right?” Bucky smiles casually and nods,  

“Definitely.”   

It took the brunet some time once their relationship began to acclimate to the idea of having an equal around with a constantly-vested interest in all aspects of his wellbeing. He’d gotten so used to keeping all his problems bottled up, he was almost always caught off guard when Sam would ask if something was wrong. Now, it’s expected of both of them to share their personal troubles with each other should they arise.   

Of course, Bucky deeply appreciates this part of their connection, only realizing later on that it’s something he’d been lacking in the last several years. He’s glad to know he can tell Sam about anything that bothers him, but he doesn’t always  want  to, especially if it will worry the man unnecessarily—he already does  that  plenty without even trying.   

Sam nods back, seemingly satisfied. “Alright then. Maybe you should cut your shoulder exercises in half for a few days—see if that helps?”   

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks,” he replies. Sam delicately rests his own hand atop the shoulder and gives it a soothing little squeeze.  

“And, y’know, I’m always happy to give you a  massage  later tonight...before  bed  maybe?” he whispers in the brunet’s ear. Bucky can already feel the goosebumps forming up the back of his neck at his boyfriend’s suggestion.   

“You know I’m not gonna refuse  that,”  he smirks, leaning in to capture Sam’s mouth in a long, languid kiss. By the time they part, the concerns of the last 10 minutes are all but forgotten.  

Bucky lies on the bed, back to the headboard, absently scrolling through his phone with his right thumb. His prosthesis sits on the nightstand next to him where he always leaves it at night—it's usually more comfortable to sleep without it.   

Sleeping  with Sam,  on the other hand, well...they like to mix it up, sometimes having him wear it, sometimes not. It really depends on both their moods or, in tonight’s case, his own comfort levels.  

Over the course of the rest of the afternoon, Bucky’s prosthetic arm seemed to increase in weight—his shoulder growing sorer by the hour, eventually convincing him to remove it earlier than usual. Doing so helped a little, so he declined to mention it to Sam. He didn’t want something so minor getting in the way of their  fun.    

Plus, Sam gives the  best  massages. The man’s a miracle worker with his fingers, regardless of where he puts them on Bucky’s body—Sam likes to remind him often that just getting to touch him all over is one of his favorite hobbies. Sam offers to rub his shoulder at least once a week—a part of their routine Bucky  eagerly  anticipates.   

The brunet runs his left stump along the side of his bare torso and sighs at the small jolt of discomfort coming from his shoulder. He leans over to drop his phone on the nightstand and crosses his legs, readjusting his boxers as Sam enters the room in an equal state of undress. He stretches and rolls his neck before flopping belly-first onto the bed next to Bucky.  

“Sloppy form, but I’ll give you points for enthusiasm,” he jokes, smirking at Sam pressing his face directly into the pillow. Sam turns his head and flicks his eyes up.  

“You’re the pickiest judge on the panel, you know that?” Bucky shrugs, just with his right shoulder.   

“No one likes the easy judges—you think people originally watched  American Idol  for as long as they did for Paula’s and Randy’s opinions?” Sam chuckles,  

“Point taken,” and rolls over on his side to face his boyfriend. Tracing a few fingers up his stump and stopping just shy of his shoulder, Sam smiles and bites his lip. “So, ready for a little post-competition  cool down?”  He sits up straighter, pressing a line of delicate kisses up the path from Bucky’s shoulder to his neck.  

“Nothin’  ‘cool’  about it, I hope,” he says, angling his nape for Sam’s convenience, “but yes, please.” Sam smiles against the skin and leaves one last warm kiss before pulling back.  

“Right then,” Sam shifts to sit sideways on the bed and pats the space in front of him, “you know the drill—scoot around, back to me.” Bucky obediently turns to position himself in front of Sam. He closes his eyes gently as the heat from his boyfriend’s fingertips makes contact with his back muscles.  

Sam glides them up to the top of his spine and squeezes teasingly a few times before running both hands to cover the left shoulder. He begins kneading, lightly at first, adding more pressure as he goes. Bucky starts to let his head droop forward but suddenly snaps it up when the next pinch comes. He hisses sharply through his teeth, that same spot inside his shoulder flaring up from the touch. Sam blinks, wide-eyed, and removes his hands.  

“Sorry, was that too hard?” he asks, concern evident. Bucky tries to shake off the sensation with a huff.  

“N-No,” he replies, “it’s fine—probably stiff, just need to warm up.” Sam hesitates but eventually places his palms back against the brunet’s shoulder blade. He starts up again slow, putting even pressure on the skin and sliding his hands up and down.  

The moment Sam attempts another firm squeeze, Bucky flinches hard.  

“Ah!” he gasps, hunching forward and clutching at the junction between his neck and shoulder. Sam whips his hands back like lightning, holding them up in surrender.  

“Buck, what is it? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice makes the brunet’s guts twist a little in guilt—or maybe it’s the pain doing that.  

“Hurts,” he manages to say through clenched teeth. Without looking, Bucky can sense Sam’s on the verge of apologizing, like he’s the one causing his ache. “No, d-don't—wasn’t you.” Sam shifts and crawls around the bed next to him.  

“Is it worse than earlier?”   

“I...I dunno,” Bucky lies—it's  definitely  worse than earlier. Sam fixes him with another worried expression before very gingerly placing a hand atop the afflicted shoulder. He studies closely, inspecting the area with a keen eye.  

“It doesn’t look any different—no redness or swelling. Think you pulled something?” he asks, tenderly stroking over the curved scarring. Bucky gazes down at it, trying to think about what he might’ve done in the last week to hurt it. Nothing comes to mind.  

“Uhm, y’know, I’ve probably been overdoing things with the PT stuff,” he fibs again. “I think I just need to rest it.” Sam’s mouth goes crooked, like he’s not totally convinced.   

“You want some ice?” Bucky shakes his head.  

“No, but thanks. I think I...I just need sleep.” He gently pushes Sam’s hand off. “Sorry to ruin the mood...” Sam shakes his head and leans in to nuzzle the back of his neck, leaving a soft kiss against the shell of his ear.  

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he purrs, “you didn’t ruin anything. Not much fun if you’re gonna be uncomfortable! I’m just sorry it hurts.” Sam gets up from the bed and walks toward the closet. “You need an extra pillow for support or anything?” He takes one off the shelf before he gets an answer and tosses it on the bed.  

“Couldn’t hurt, I guess,” mumbles Bucky, taking the pillow and stuffing it up against the headboard. Using his right arm only, he pulls back the covers and slips underneath while Sam turns out the light and joins him.   

Sam’s usually a bit of a cuddler in bed, preferring to be the big spoon whenever he can. Bucky tends to run colder, so he doesn’t mind the contact much. He used to complain, more out of shyness than dislike, but Sam insisted long enough that it too occasionally joined their routine. Tonight, however, Sam gives him space and Bucky is secretly relieved to have it.  

The clock reads 3:25 a.m. when Bucky’s shocked awake by the throbbing,  needling  ache radiating from his shoulder.   

In the first moments after waking, he almost can’t get enough air into his lungs—the pain is so abruptly  worse  than when he fell asleep. Bucky sits straight up like a catapult on the bed, clenching his jaw so tightly he could crack his teeth. Once he finally manages a to draw a full breath, he stumbles out of bed and slips into the bathroom, covering his mouth to dampen his harsh breathing.   

Closing the door silently, he flips on the overhead light and runs some water into the sink. Bucky bends over to splash some on his face but stops when the movement reaches his aching shoulder.   

What’s happening? Why the fuck does it hurt so much?  

Staring at his left side in the mirror, Bucky finds nothing out of the ordinary about his shoulder. However, he himself looks paler than normal; a thin sheen of sweat hangs on his upper body and the lines under his eyes almost appear darker. He looks like a ghost.   

The rapid onset of nausea from another sharp pinch in his shoulder and the seemingly brightening fluorescents of the bathroom cause his knees to buckle. He only just manages to catch himself on the vanity before hitting the tile.   

Bucky takes several deliberate breaths, trying to steady himself. When he feels stable enough on his legs, he reaches his hand up and opens the medicine cabinet, searching the bottles inside. He finds one and struggles to open the cap with his shaking fingers. Once it’s finally open, he pops a couple of the generic painkillers inside and sets the bottle on the sink.   

Even the slightest of movements in his shoulder sets his nerves alight with pain. Bucky clutches it tightly, but now the pressure only  increases  that sensation.  

“God— fuck,”  he hisses, as he presses his back to the wall behind and slides down carefully to the floor. He can feel his throat tightening with his stomach, the urge to throw up growing stronger. Bucky rests his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes, taking long, deep breaths to quell the sick feeling. He knows over-the-counter pain meds can take up to an hour to even start working in some cases—he doesn’t know if he can stand this for another  hour,  so he decides to try everything else in the meantime.  

And when he said try everything, he meant  everything —Bucky sat on the bathroom floor for another 10 minutes before mustering the energy to get up. He snuck to the kitchen and wrapped a handful of ice cubes in a towel. The makeshift ice pack only made him cold in addition to uncomfortable. He tried massaging the area, ignoring the ache for as long as possible, but it changed nothing. He downed a bottle of Gatorade in case it was somehow hydration-related, but that didn’t do anything for him except send him back to the bathroom.  

He even tried that whole ‘mirror box’ mental exercise thing Sam made him do not long after they met—it's meant for phantom pain, but at this point, he’s desperate. Though it didn't help, it did tell him the problem wasn’t just in his head—his shoulder  really  fucking hurts for real.  

As the clock on the oven changes to 4:38 a.m., Bucky lets out a distressed whimper—he's been working to stop the pain for a little over an hour now with zero improvements. He’s starting to feel lightheaded as he leaves the kitchen and makes a hasty retreat back to the bathroom. He only barely throws the toilet seat up in time before he spills his guts right into it, the action sending more jolts of agony through his left.  

Once his stomach refuses to give up anything else, he scoots himself closer to the door and opens it a crack. Blessedly, Sam’s typically a heavier sleeper and hasn’t woken up from any of this yet. Bucky shuts the door quietly and sits against it.  

What the fuck else can I do to make this stop?  he thinks, a small sob nearly escaping his lips. The pain is making his head swim, making him feel delirious. He glances up at the shower head across the room. Crawling over to it on his knees and right hand, Bucky turns on the water and adjusts it as warm as he can get it before dragging himself under the spray.  

It’s hot— way  too hot. He knows he should lower the temperature before he burns his skin, but feeling the near-scalding water hit the back of his shoulder is the  only  thing he’s tried so far that’s distracting enough to give him even just a moment’s relief from the pain.  

Bucky’s not sure how long he sits under the water—his underwear totally soaked through within a minute, so he can’t be sure. It’s long enough, however, to wake Sam.   

The man cautiously opens the bathroom door and recoils when a cloud of steam hits him in the face. Bucky’s only vaguely aware something’s changed until he hears the voice.  

“B-Bucky?” Sam stutters, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Woke up and heard the water, are you—” Once he gets a good look at the situation—his boyfriend curled into a ball under the burning shower stream, skin reddened from the heat—Sam cuts himself off. “Oh, my god, Bucky! How hot is this water?  Jesus!”  He reaches in and swiftly shuts off the spray, waving his hand in front of his face to dissipate some of the steam. Sam snatches a towel off the shelf and crouches down to wrap it around Bucky. “What the hell are you doing? You could burn yourself turning the water that hot!”   

The brunet, still curled in on himself, doesn’t answer, only letting out a muffled cry as Sam inadvertently rubs the towel across his ailing shoulder.  “Shit,”  Sam murmurs, “did you actually burn yourself?” When Bucky still doesn’t respond, he grips the left shoulder gingerly, trying to shake it to gain his attention. It’s the wrong move.  

“Ngh, fuck!”  whimpers Bucky, grimacing at the barely-there touch. Sam recoils immediately, eyes widening, as his boyfriend inhales a shaky breath.  

“Bucky?” whispers Sam. “What’s wrong?” The brunet simply shakes his head limply, stifling another wince. “C’mon, talk to me,” he encourages. “It’s still your shoulder?” Bucky nods stiffly.  

“Worse,”  he chokes out, “hurts  worse,  I can’t—” He pauses to grit his teeth and push out a short puff of air between them. “It—It’s  inside,  Sam, hurts  inside,  so  bad,”  he sobs, several tears running down his flushed cheeks—the droplets Sam dried off a moment ago weren’t just from the shower.  

“God,” murmurs Sam, “why didn’t you wake me?” Bucky shakes his head as another muted whimper escapes his lips.  

“I wanted—tried everything,” he stutters, “tried everything I could think of...n-nothing worked; nothing h-helped...but the water, it was  hot  and it just...’m s-sorry.” The brunet chokes out a gasp as Sam continues to cautiously dry him off with the towel.  

“Okay, hey, I got you,” Sam nods, understanding the man’s implications, “it’s alright, just take a deep breath.” He gently wraps the towel around Bucky’s shoulders and sighs, “Think you can stand up? Get you to the bed?”  

“It’ll get w-wet...”  

“That’s okay, it’s just water; it’ll dry.”   

Sam carefully helps him to his feet, minding his shoulder as much as possible, and leads him back to the bed. He spreads another towel out and sits him down, sliding in next to his left. Ever-so-lightly, he runs his fingers over the scarred skin.  

“I’m gonna take a closer look, okay? Tell me if it hurts at all.” Bucky nods in agreement as Sam leans in, squinting.  

“It...do-doesn’t look any different,” the brunet mumbles. Now Sam’s the one nodding.  

“Yeah, I don’t see any bruising or anything…and the redness is from the water.” Bucky grimaces and hangs his head, rubbing his eyes with his right hand. Sam takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself composed—Bucky knows it won’t help if he panics too. “Buck,” he asks, “has it ever hurt like this before?”   

“N-No,” the brunet shakes his head, “not since...since there was a fuckin’ tree branch sticking out.” He swallows audibly at the memory as Sam very gently spreads a palm over the afflicted area.   

“And you said you tried everything?” he questions. “Tell me what you did.” Bucky recounts the last hour or so, face gradually twisting with misery as he continuously shifts to try to make himself more comfortable.   

Bucky’s breathing hard, keeping his eyes shut tight. Sam lets out a long breath and puts a hand over his own mouth, appearing deep in thought. “Look,” he sighs, “I know you’re not gonna wanna hear this...but we might need to go to the emergency room.” The second he suggests it, Bucky’s rapidly shaking his head.  

“No, no,” he whines, “I don’t—I  c-can’t,  Sam!”  

“I know, baby, I know,” he replies soothingly, “but I can’t think of what else to do here.” The brunet pinches the bridge of his nose and presses his lips together firmly. “You know if there was anything else I could do, I would, but if it hurts this badly and  nothing  you’ve tried has made any difference...I mean, it’s important to get it checked out in case it’s serious.”  

“Please,” begs Bucky,  “anywhere  but the ER...” He hates to sound so pathetic, but the thought of going to the ER as a  patient  makes him almost as nauseous as the ache in his shoulder. The last time he had to do that was after the accident and ever since, no single part of a hospital makes him  more  uncomfortable than an emergency room.  

Sam reaches up a hand and rests it against the side of Bucky’s head, stroking his hair softly. “Buck,” he murmurs, “what else do you expect me to do? I hate seeing you so miserable like this; I gotta take you.”   

Bucky looks to the floor, anxiety beginning to constrict his chest. He knows Sam’s right, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. After a moment, another idea pops into his head.  

“M-Maybe,” he starts, “can we go to the urgent care center instead?” Sam gives him an uncertain look. “I don’t...wanna go there either, b-but it’s  not  the ER, so...” He flashes his boyfriend his best set of puppy-dog eyes—again, not something he likes doing, but he’s feeling very desperate.   

Eventually, Sam sighs, lightly scratching his fingernails over the back of the brunet’s scalp. “They don’t open until eight,” he says, “that’s a couple hours from now. Think you can wait that long?” Bucky nods. “Alright, we’ll get there the second they open.” Sam scoots off the bed and stands in front of him, bending forward to leave a soft kiss on his forehead. “It’s gonna be okay, baby,” he whispers, “we’ll get this fixed, I promise.”   

He stands and turns toward the closet, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a zip-up sweatshirt and brings them to the bed. Sam helps get Bucky dressed before dressing himself and leading them both to the living room. He tries to persuade the brunet to eat something, but Bucky’s stomach is in too many knots.   

When it nears 8:00 a.m., Sam drives them to the closest urgent care center. They’re let in right as the building opens and Bucky gets the first appointment. When he’s called back by a nurse, Sam gives him a reassuring squeeze on the knee and sits back to wait in the lobby.   

His exhaustion coupled with the hours of constant ache make it difficult for Bucky to concentrate on what’s going on around him. He thinks the nurse took him through all the standard health checks and asked him a few questions about his medical history, but he wouldn’t be able to recall details if prompted about it later.   

After several tests, including a blood draw and an X-ray, Bucky’s given an injectable painkiller directly to his shoulder and left to wait in an exam room for a doctor to show up. Once the meds kick in, all he can do is lie back on the exam bed and release the longest, slowest breath of relief possible. He’s so drained he could probably fall asleep right here.  

The chance never comes as Bucky hears two swift knocks on the exam room door and a tall, dark-haired doctor enters carrying a clipboard and a tablet. He puts them on the counter by the wall and turns back.  

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” he greets, shaking Bucky’s hand as he sits up.   

“Can’t say I agree,” he replies, feeling a spike in his sense of humor now that he’s not in  agony.  Jokes, however, are also one of his favorite ways to cope with anxiety—something Sam pointed out a while back. He’s not really sure which of those things prompts the sarcastic comment, but the doctor seems to appreciate it anyway.  

“Hah, right, I suppose that’s why you’re here,” he chuckles. “I’m Dr. Stephen Strange, I’ll be handling your case—nice to meet you, in spite of the circumstances.” Bucky cautiously raises an eyebrow.  

“M-My case?” he asks, voice wavering slightly. Dr. Strange must sense his unease, because he slides the clipboard into his hand and leans back against the counter, possibly attempting to appear more casual.   

“Yes—your shoulder, that is, and why it’s suddenly causing you pain.” The doctor swaps the clipboard for the tablet and taps the screen several times. “The nurses sent for your medical history from New York when you checked in. I understand you were in a car accident approximately four years ago?” Bucky nods slowly. “And in that accident, you suffered severe injuries to your left arm and shoulder, resulting in the need for multiple surgeries, is that correct?” Unconsciously, Bucky reaches for his stump and covers it with his hand as he nods again. “As I understand, the procedure on your shoulder was for the removal of a...‘foreign object’?” He looks up from the tablet, slight confusion in his face.  

“That was, uh,” Bucky coughs, “a branch—tree branch.” Dr. Strange nods comprehensively.  

“Ah, I see. That makes sense given the description of the injury sustained...and gives me more reason to believe in the accuracy of my diagnosis.” Bucky swallows hard at the words while the doctor puts down the tablet and approaches the examination bed. He pulls on a pair of latex gloves and gestures for his patient to turn. “A nurse should’ve administered a painkiller before I came in—has it taken effect?”  

“Y-Yeah, I think so.”  

“Good,” replies Dr. Strange. “I’m going to perform an external examination to see if I can feel anything out of the ordinary.” Bucky must be too tired out to put on a good poker face, because again, the doc seems to recognize his unrest. “It’s just a little poking and prodding. It shouldn’t hurt with the meds, but let me know if it does.”   

Bucky nods and partially unzips his hoodie to expose his bad shoulder as directed. Dr. Strange presses his fingers against the front while the flat of his hand steadies the back. He pushes in the center of the scarring—where the branch entered—and focuses the pressure there. To his great relief, the pain meds must’ve also numbed the area, because Bucky doesn’t feel much of anything. It’s uncomfortable, but a walk in the park compared to what he was experiencing less than an hour ago.   

After a minute of ‘poking and prodding,’ Dr. Strange hums with what sounds like confirmation and removes his hands. As he’s throwing away the gloves, Bucky re-covers his shoulder and zips back up, noting the chill in the air. Now that he’s not distracted by pain, he can feel just how cool the temperature is in the building. The doctor makes a few notes on the clipboard and smiles.  

“Well, good news,” he starts, “it’s nothing serious—no tumors or cancer or muscle degeneration.” Bucky perks up just a little at that but still dreads hearing the rest—a doctor’s definition of ‘good news’ usually differs drastically from his own. “It’s merely the development of excess scar tissue inside the site of the old injury.” Bucky blinks a few times, not completely sure he understands.  

“Uh,” he stutters, “okay. I thought th-that was supposed to happen? Why is it only an issue now?” Strange nods and picks up the tablet, moving to stand next to his patient on the exam bed. He pulls up the images from his earlier X-rays and tilts the device so they can both look at it.   

“When your original injury occurred, the branch was surgically removed and the shoulder patched up—standard operation for impaling trauma. This type of wound can take a much longer time to recover than most people realize. Superficially, the skin may heal and scars will form, but internally can be a different story. Occasionally, in the time it takes for a wound to heal on the inside, the body will form more scar tissue than necessary, causing a buildup. And sometimes, that buildup is enough to cause noticeable discomfort or pain.”   

He draws a circle with his finger around a dark spot on Bucky’s X-ray. “See that shadow? Scar tissue shows up on X-rays as shadows like that. This one is directly in the path of the older injury and I believe the reason it’s causing you such pain is because most of the tissue has built up near a nerve—it's possible that over time, the scar tissue developed and only more recently shifted to press against the nerve.” Dr. Strange tilts the tablet back to himself and taps on it a few more times. “Tell me, Mr. Barnes,” he asks, “have you increased your activity levels at all in the past several months?” Bucky idly runs his fingers up and down the line of his sweatshirt's zipper.  

“Oh,” he grasps, “I started doing physical therapy for it not too long ago.” The doc nods in understanding.  

“That probably contributed, yes. But even without the added exercise, it would’ve become a problem sooner or later. This is quite a common occurrence in post-op sites but luckily, the procedure to fix it is just as common.” At the sound of those words, Bucky feels the blood drain from his face.  

“P-Procedure?” he murmurs, unable to stop the subtle crack in his voice. “Wh-What procedure?” Strange again swaps out the tablet for the clipboard and scribbles on the pages rapidly.   

“The procedure to remove the excess tissue, of course.” His tone is casual as anything, but Bucky couldn’t be feeling  more  the opposite. “It’s a simple operation, really—I've done it hundreds of times. You shouldn’t even need to stay in the hospital overnight if everything goes smoothly.” When his patient doesn’t respond, Dr. Strange finally looks up.   

“I, uh,” Bucky struggles to speak, “is there anything else y-you can do that  doesn’t  involve s-surgery?” Every word gets harder to say as his mouth and throat dry out completely. Dr. Strange stands up straighter and puts down the clipboard and pen.   

“There are temporary solutions, but the only permanent one involves surgery.” Bucky’s just as pale, maybe even more so, as he was when he woke up in the middle of the night. His hand feels clammy and a few beads of sweat form under his hoodie behind his neck. He’s afraid he might be sick again. “Are you alright, Mr. Barnes?” He shakes his head loosely.  

“I just, uhm, I’m n-not—not really a  fan  of surgery,” he manages to get out. Dr. Strange nods, seemingly sympathetic.  

“I can understand that, considering your medical history. But I must tell you it’s what any other doctor would recommend.” He takes a few steps closer to the exam bed, a wary expression on his face. “It’s really a very easy operation—just a simple, quick removal, a few stitches, and you’ll be good as new. I’ll do the procedure myself and I can tell you from experience, the time between administering anesthesia to the time you’d wake up in recovery wouldn’t be more than two hours, at  most.”    

When he realizes these little reassurances don’t seem to be easing any of Bucky’s worries, Dr. Strange tries something else. He glances at the clipboard and back to his patient. “Did you come today with anyone else, Mr. Barnes?” Bucky’s only able to manage a swift nod in response. “Would it help if they were to join us in here while I walk you through the procedure?” He nods again, accompanied by a short exhale. “If you give me their name, I’ll get a nurse bring them back.”   

“M-My bo-boyfriend brought me...S-Sam Wilson.” Strange nods and heads for the door.  

“I’ll have someone fetch him then. Feel free to lie back again if you’re lightheaded.” He walks out quickly and Bucky takes him up on that suggestion, suddenly feeling dizzier than before.  

Both Dr. Strange and Sam enter the exam room only a minute later. Sam moves straight for Bucky, giving him a brief peck on the forehead before sitting in one of the chairs off to the side. Strange retakes his position by the counter and grabs for the tablet once more.  

The doctor explains the situation again for Sam’s benefit, answering any inquiries he brings up. Bucky feels like a sick little kid whose parent has to stay in the room with him and ask all the important questions themselves—he's definitely not in the right headspace to be trusted to retain all this information anyway.   

When Dr. Strange gets to the part about surgery, he goes over the steps and what will happen on the day of the appointment. Sam will bring Bucky in 20 minutes beforehand so he can fill out some forms. When a nurse calls him back, he’ll be sedated and prepped for the procedure. The surgical removal of the scar tissue shouldn’t take more than half an hour—if even that long—then he’ll be stitched up and sent to recovery. Once the anesthesia wears off and he wakes up, Dr. Strange will do a post-op check in to make sure everything looks good. A nurse will give him a prescription to manage the pain for the first week and he’ll come back in to have the stitches removed after the second week.  

“It really is a simple operation,” the doc says, trying to emphasize this fact gracefully. “And like I said, as long as all goes well and things look fine a couple hours post-procedure, you won’t even need to be kept overnight.” Bucky’s been listening, but he mostly stared at the floor the entire time. Sam glances his way before turning back to Strange.  

“So,” he begins, “this is a pretty standard thing then?”   

“Yes, I do surgeries like this practically every week.” Sam nods.  

“And the chances for complications?”  

“Slim-to-none; it’s less than one  thousandth  of a percent. In fact, I could do this procedure with my eyes closed!” Sam shoots the doctor an incredulous look. “I won’t, of course,” he clarifies, “but it  is  easy and it  is  the safest course of action here. There isn’t anything to be concerned about.”   

Bucky blinks hard and licks his lips, trying to process all this information. A thought crosses his mind that he really doesn’t want to voice, but his conscious won’t let him remain silent.  

“W-Wait, uhm...I—I’m a recovering a-addict,” he stutters, “I can’t have—I mean, the prescription for... afterwards...”  He struggles to finish the thought.  

“Will taking a prescription painkiller post-op be a problem for him?” Sam asks, finishing the question. Bucky glances to his boyfriend, meeting his eye, and flashes him a subtle head flick, hoping it comes across as thanks. Dr. Strange taps the tablet a few times, shaking his head.  

“Yes, I’m sorry, I almost forgot to mention that,” he apologizes. “As long as he takes the meds as directed for the prescribed period of time, everything should be fine in that department.”   

Strange continues to explain he will be required to get in contact with Bucky’s regular therapist once the appointment for the surgery is made to inform her about the prescription so she’s aware of the situation and prepared to help if needed. When he hears that Sam and Bucky live together when Bucky’s in town, he recommends Sam be the one to handle the meds for his partner, just to keep things easy.   

“Like I said,” he reiterates, “there’s nothing to be concerned about here. Once we get past the surgery on Thursday, everything should go back to normal—you might even find an improvement in your range of motion in the coming months, Mr. Barnes.” The doc starts to pick up his things while Bucky clutches at his chest, stuck on the phrase ‘surgery on  Thursday.’  He swallows—today's  Tuesday.  

“Th-Thursday? N-Not...not  this  Thursday?” Strange looks up at him, brows raised.  

“Yes. Thursday is the scheduled surgery day for clinic patients.” Bucky swallows again, giving Sam a quick look. Sam gets up to stand next to him on the exam bed. “I know that’s only two days from now,” Strange continues, “but the sooner we take care of this problem the better. I can’t keep prescribing injections for the pain—those are temporary and for short-term use only. I have a couple open appointments Thursday morning. I’ll have the nurse set one up for you before you leave.”   

Dr. Strange gathers his belongings and moves to shake both the other men’s hands. “If either of you should have any questions before Thursday, don’t hesitate to call.” He smiles and heads for the door.  

“Thanks, Doc,” Sam says just before he shuts the door behind him. There’s a beat of silence as they both stare at the closed door.   

Just a minute later, a nurse enters to help them check out. She gets Bucky’s appointment set up—Thursday at 9:00 a.m.—and gives him a few basic instructions for before he arrives at the hospital. She also gives him two additional pills to manage the pain for the next 48 hours before surgery and leads them out.  

The drive back to their apartment building is silent, as is the elevator ride up to their floor. Sam unlocks and opens the door, ushering his boyfriend through first. Bucky’s hugging his arms close to his chest, jaw clenched and twitching. He plops himself down on the couch and tips over onto his right side, his arm slouching in front of his face.  

Sam tosses his keys onto the kitchen island and goes to join the brunet in the living room. He slides onto the end of the sofa and moves to lift Bucky’s head up and onto his lap so he has enough space to sit. They both veg out for several long minutes before Sam sighs, resting a hand on the side of his boyfriend’s head.  

“Hey,” he murmurs, carding his fingers gently through his lover’s hair, “talk to me. How’re you feelin’ about all this?” A muffled wince comes from the lump on his lap.  

“Tired,” groans Bucky.  

“I relate...but what else?”  

“I dunno...”  

“Bucky—”  

“Please, Sam,” he cuts in, “I jus’ wanna sleep—I feel like a zombie ‘n’ I wanna sleep,  please... can we do this later?” Bucky turns his head to look up at Sam, no longer caring how pathetic he must sound in the moment. His eyes feel clouded over, like he hasn’t shut them in eons, and he can hardly focus through the fog in his brain. Sam trails the backs of his fingers along his temple and down his jawline.  

“Okay,” he gives, “go sleep. I’ll call in to work and tell ‘em I’m not coming in.” Bucky starts to protest but Sam just covers his mouth. “I’m stayin’ here with you, darlin,’ no arguments.” He pouts against Sam’s hand but reluctantly nods. The two stand up and head for the bedroom. Sam stops in the doorframe and leans against it. “Y’need anything?” The brunet shakes his head,  

“No, ‘m’fine.”   

“Well, holler if you do,” Sam instructs. “I’ll order in some food a little later and wake you up when it gets here, alright?” Bucky nods weakly, the thought of food second on his priority list,  far  below sleep at this moment. His boyfriend nods in satisfaction and gently closes the door.   

Bucky only manages to shove off his shoes before he collapses face-first on the bed, trying to keep his bad shoulder out of the way.  

After a dreamless sleep, Bucky forces his eyelids to part and focuses on the clock on his nightstand—it’s already after four in the afternoon. He slept for nearly six hours since they got home. He glances past the clock at his prosthetic arm still laying on the surface and thinks about how long it’ll be until he feels like wearing it again. He’s certainly not up for it now.   

The smell of fresh food gradually wafts into the bedroom, finally convincing Bucky to drag himself from the soft bundle of blankets and pillows. He shuffles like the undead to the door and slowly cracks it open a couple feet.  

Sam’s spreading the delivery out on the kitchen island—Thai food, one of Bucky’s favorites. He must’ve overheard the door opening, because he glances over his shoulder to find the brunet slowly plodding into the kitchen, keeping his arms wrapped around himself. Bucky glides up behind his lover and presses his body up against his back, resting his forehead in the crook of Sam’s neck. Sam reaches a hand up and gently lays it on the back of Bucky’s head.  

“Hey,” he coos quietly, “I was just gonna wake you. Seems the food took care of that for me.”  

“Mmph,” Bucky grumbles into the man’s shirt.  

“Let’s eat and chill for the rest of the night. We can watch movies until we fall asleep, sound good?” The brunet nods against him.  

“Yeah...s’good.” Sam swivels around and leaves a gentle kiss on his lips, lingering only a few moments.  

“Now,” he says, pulling back, “I dunno about you, but I’m  starving.”  He smiles, handing over a plate and taking one for himself.  

The two laze about for the rest of the afternoon and evening, picking at the selection of food and binging mindless rom-coms. Sam gives Bucky one of his painkillers and saves the other for tomorrow.   

By the time the sun is setting, both men are wrapped up in a blanket and snuggled up on the couch, only half paying attention to whatever random movie Netflix picked for them.   

The comfortable quiet is interrupted by Bucky’s phone chiming with a text message. He frees his hand from the warm confines of his blanket and idly picks up the device. An involuntary groan escapes his throat when he sees it’s from his therapist—Dr. Raynor—in New York.   

Sam glances down at the brunet, raising a brow, “What’s wrong?” Bucky’s still drained from the last 12 hours, so he opts to just hold the phone up instead of speaking. His boyfriend reads the message and moves to sit up, causing Bucky to shift up straighter as well.   

Dr. Raynor apparently received word from Dr. Strange at the urgent care center about her patient’s sudden and upcoming surgery. She wants to call Bucky during her lunch break tomorrow and discuss it since he obviously doesn’t have time to see her in person.  

“I was actually thinking it might be a good idea to talk to her about this,” sighs Sam after reading.   

“Prob’ly,” mumbles Bucky, letting his arm holding the phone go slack. Sam stares at him for a moment and rubs a hand soothingly up and down his thigh.   

“Look, you don’t have to talk to me about this if you don’t want to,” he says, “as long as you talk to her.” Bucky angles himself in his lover’s direction, his shoulder’s drooping.  

“Sam,” he whines, “c’mon...it’s not that I don’t wanna talk about it with you...I don’t wanna talk about it at  all.”  He unconsciously raises his hand to his shoulder, the ache dulled but still underlying. “I just...I can barely wrap my head around this and—and...it’s happening in less than 40 hours now. I don’t even get the time to think about it, let alone the time to discuss it, really...” Sam squeezes gently at his leg.  

“I know,” he murmurs, “but that’s why it’s important you get to talk to  someone  before Thursday.” Bucky hangs his head and exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sam traces circles with his finger atop his thigh, watching the fabric of his sweatpants shift around.   

“Can’t even pick  one  fuckin’ coherent thought out of my shitty brain,” whimpers Bucky. “I’m just...”  

“Are you scared?” supplies Sam.  

“...Yes.”  

“What of?”  

“...All of it,”  he bites, clenching his teeth.  

“Tell me just  one  thing, then,” Sam requests. The brunet stares at his lap, unwilling to make eye contact.  

“I don’t—what if...what if it doesn’t work?”  

“It will.”  

“But what if it  doesn’t?”  

“Then we’ll find another way to fix it,” he assures. “It’s not worth dwelling on—we'll cross that bridge  if  we come to it.” Bucky shuts his eyes tight. “You don’t believe me?”  

“I want to,” he mutters. “I really fuckin’  want  to.” Sam scoots closer and puts an arm around him, pulling him to his chest.  

“Then I’ll just keep reminding you until you do,” he whispers against Bucky’s temple. “You know I’m not one to give up so easily. And I know  you  aren’t either.” The brunet smiles a little.  

“Guess we’re both just a couple’a stubborn jackasses...” Sam chuckles, pressing a line of kisses from his forehead down his cheek and jaw.  

“Sure are,” he replies, “and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Bucky tilts his face up to catch Sam’s lips with his own.  

“Me neither.”  

*~*~*~*~*~*  

At lunchtime the next day, Bucky answers the incoming video call from Dr. Raynor on his laptop.   

“How’re you holding up, James?” she asks first thing, twirling a fork between her fingers and pushing what looks to be a bowl of pasta off to the side. She really wasn’t kidding about doing this on her lunch break.   

“Good to see you too, Doc,” he replies sarcastically. She rolls her eyes but lets loose a small smirk,  

“Yes, greetings, formalities, all that bullshit—we both know you’re on a time crunch, so let’s get straight to it. Walk me through yesterday and how much you’re worrying about it.” Dr. Raynor gathers a few noodles on the fork and slurps them up quick, never taking her eyes off the screen.  

Bucky can’t say he and Dr. Raynor got along immediately—in fact, he  can  say with sure confidence he didn’t like her at first. After just one meeting with the dark-haired, middle-aged woman, he wanted to quit and find someone else, but she came highly recommended in the New York area. Sam insisted he at least give her a chance, citing his personal difficulties in the art of making a first impression. Bucky didn’t want to seem hypocritical so he went back to see her a few more times and things finally clicked between them.  

Dr. Raynor is a very straightforward, no-nonsense kind of woman; she doesn’t beat around the bush, tackling her patients’ problems with a head-on approach. In other words, she doesn’t take any of Bucky's shit, even when it’s in jest. Her style wasn’t something he was used to dealing with. Although Sam’s similarly straightforward, he also knows when to give him some time and space...and, frankly, a  good fuck  at the end of a stressful day, which is something Dr. Raynor obviously cannot provide.   

However, once Bucky understood that his therapist wasn’t one for small talk, he grew to appreciate her ‘straight-to-business' methodology—small talk isn’t one of his strong suits anyway. Dr. Raynor knows what to look for and though she’s sometimes firm, she’s never judgmental. By now, he’s accustomed to rattling off whatever comes to mind when prompted. He supposes if ever there was a time to be thankful for the woman's quick-fire process, now would be the time.  

“Wh-Why do you assume I’m worried about it?” Bucky stammers, propping his right elbow on the kitchen island next to the computer. He’s alone in the apartment right now—Sam went in to work today so he could take Thursday off without guilt.   

Dr. Raynor fixes him with a wry expression. “Because I know you well enough by now, James, to understand your thought process,” she explains. “You tend to panic first and think later.”  

“That’s not— always  true,” he argues, crossing his arm and stump over the counter, sticking his lip out in a mild pout.  

“Maybe not, but don’t try to tell me this  isn’t  one of those times.” She twists another few strands of pasta around her fork and gestures to the camera. “Now, c’mon, we’re on the clock here, so tell me about everything that happened yesterday and up to this call.”   

Bucky sighs and hangs his head before looking back to the screen and proceeds to regale his therapist with the thrilling tale of yesterday’s clinic visit. She remains quiet for most of the story, only asking a clarifying question or two once in a while.   

When he gets to the present, he stares at her expectantly, seeing that she’s finished her lunch while he was talking. Dr. Raynor pushes the bowl and fork aside and puts her full attention on screen.  

“Okay, then,” she says, “I already have a number of subjects to bring up, but I want you to go first. Tell me every possible concern you have about this situation, no matter how small.” Bucky groans and rests his forehead down on his arm.  

“Why can’t you ever go first, Doc?” he whines.  

“Because our sessions aren’t for  me,  James, they’re for you. And  you  won’t benefit just from listening to my thoughts without first voicing your own.”  

“But I can’t—I don’t—” he stumbles, struggling to put his feelings into words, “I’m having a hard time actually  doing  that!”   

“Which is why I have you go first,” Dr. Raynor justifies. “Using your words effectively is something you still need to work on, so any opportunity for practice is an opportunity I’m going to insist you take.” Bucky scoffs, sounding more fed up than he meant to, but the doctor doesn’t seem to take offense. “For now, just say whatever’s on your mind—we’ll make sense of it afterwards, okay?” He nods reluctantly and leans his cheek against his palm. “Okay then, go.”  

Bucky takes a quick breath and proceeds to unload the clusterfuck of thoughts, concerns, and potential scenarios living rent-free in his head. There are so many ‘what ifs’ running through his mind, it feels like his brain is a ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ series:   

What if his appointment didn’t get entered properly into the computer system? What if Dr. Strange is suddenly out sick tomorrow and someone else has to take his place? What if the replacement misinterprets his chart? What if someone accidentally cuts something important and completely  paralyzes  what’s left of his arm? What if he isn’t put under enough sedation and wakes up halfway through? What if he’s put under  too much  sedation and doesn’t wake up at all?   

What if something goes  wrong?  

Perhaps the biggest concerns Bucky finally voices are in the same vein as what he told Sam last night—what if it simply  doesn’t  work? What if the only other way to fix the problem is by amputating the rest of his arm? And if nothing at all goes wrong  during  the surgery, what about  after?  What if all the prescriptions they give him post-op mess with him—with his  sobriety— in ways they can't predict? What if his  next  addiction follows the lead of the first and also starts after invasive surgery?  

When Bucky finally exhausts his list of catastrophic events, he feels almost as drained as when he got home yesterday. Dr. Raynor took notes off-screen the whole time. She knows he doesn’t like watching her take notes in front of him, so she usually either records their sessions or keeps the notebook discreetly under the table or otherwise out of sight. This is a special circumstance, so he decides not to mention he could see her notes in the corner of the screen. They  are  on a time crunch.  

“Okay, that’s a healthy list,” she comments, “anything else?” Bucky shakes his head, sighing as he does. “So, James,” she continues, “what I’m getting from the core of all this...is that your nervousness over this situation echoes your worries of the accident; that you’re seeing these two incidents as having the same or similar outcomes, does that seem accurate?”  

“I guess,” nods Bucky.  

“It’s perfectly understandable you’d project like that. In fact, it's exactly what I expected to hear from you given that the present circumstance  is  a long-term result from the previous one.”  

“Glad I’m such an open book,” he jeers.  

“You’re not the only person to relate a past trauma with a current trauma and subconsciously connect them, James. I wouldn’t be much of a therapist if I hadn’t seen this type of thing before now, would I?”  

“Guess not...”  

“That’s not the important takeaway here,” she continues. “The important thing is that you recognize something—although these current circumstances and the circumstances of four years prior stem from the same roots, they are not the same.”  

“I know that,” he says, frowning a little.  

“Then tell me what’s different between now and then. What makes this situation special?” Bucky doesn’t always enjoy playing Dr. Raynor’s guessing games, but she always assures him there are no wrong answers, only  best  answers—the answers she wants him to prioritize and arrive at on his own.  

“Well,” he begins, “I’m not being carted off to a hospital after being cut free from a car—I actually get  some  prep time this round.” The doc nods, but he can tell that’s not what she’s looking for. “And everything’s being done under my  own  consent this time...”  

“Bigger picture, James,” she encourages, “think of the whole; don’t put so much thought into the details.” Bucky leans back in his barstool and puffs out a lungful of air. “Try again—I know you know this.” He taps his fingernails on the countertop, taking a moment to mentally step back like she suggested. Then, all at once, it hits him...and he feels kind of dumb for not getting there sooner—he blames the whirlwind of the last 30 hours for the sluggishness of his brain.  

“Ah,” he sighs, “the Sam Factor.” Raynor nods.  

“The Sam Factor.”   

The Sam Factor  is a term they basically coined together after starting Bucky’s rehab and discussing how best to handle the process in his particular case. Dr. Raynor realized very quickly that her patient had never before had a support system quite like he does now in Sam. Though she doesn’t want to encourage complete codependence, she does want Bucky to remember he and Sam have promised to be there for each other. Dr. Raynor ran through the scenario of getting sober with the brunet in two ways: one in which he would do it alone and independent of anyone else, and one in which he has a trusted partner he can lean on if needed—his current and very  real  scenario.  

Essentially, they settled on one key fact—any event in Bucky’s life, no matter how bad or difficult, will automatically be made easier to handle with Sam in the picture. This applies to everything, regardless of how much Sam is personally involved. Simply knowing he has Sam in his corner is enough to lessen any future burdens. Bucky liked that idea and found himself internally referring to the Sam Factor whenever he felt the tug of anxiety pulling him down. It reminded him of that day Sam came to his place at Pemberley and first kissed him—he’d said that Bucky wouldn’t be alone this time. As long as Sam was there, he had a permanent advantage over any problems he might face.   

Sam is the most important new factor in his way of life.  

“The likelihood that something will go wrong tomorrow is extremely small,” Raynor says. “That’s something I still want you to believe. But, since I know  you,  if you have too much trouble accepting that...then you can fall back on the knowledge that no matter  what  happens, you have Sam.”  

“And everything’s a little easier by default because of that,” adds Bucky, finishing up the thought.   

“Correct. And of course,  I  will be here too. I’ll check in on you Friday and you’re free to call or text anytime if something comes up. I won’t just let you toss all our progress out the window for a  week’s  worth of post-surgery narcotics.” Bucky can’t help but raise one corner of his mouth just a bit at that. “And Dr. Strange knows what to avoid prescribing, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”  

Dr. Raynor makes clear the rest of her opinions and gives Bucky some advice for recovery. They finish up the conversation when her lunch hour is almost up, but not before reiterating the big takeaway from the session.  

“Just remember, James,” says Raynor, “the Sam Factor. Keep that thought, and everything will turn out fine in the end.”  

“The Sam Factor,” he repeats back. “Got it. Can’t believe I almost forgot...”  

“You didn’t forget, you just pushed it back to make room for the full expanse of your panic.”  

“Yeah, okay, I panicked, so sue me!” he complains. The doctor smiles just a little before putting her serious face back on.  

“I won’t. It’s fine to panic so long as you don’t let it overtake you. Try to always keep a good thought somewhere in the back of your mind and there won’t be enough room for all that excess worry. And if you find too much of it to handle alone, you turn to your support.” Bucky sighs and nods.  

“Right, thanks Doc.”  

“Anytime, James,” she replies, reaching for the screen, “and I mean  any  time, understand?”  

“Yes, I know, any time.” Raynor manages a nearly full smile before signing off and hanging up.   

Bucky lets out a loud and unrestrained sigh.   

The Sam Factor,  he muses,  should’a been obvious...  

*~*~*~*~*~*  

Thursday morning, 8:42 a.m., Bucky and Sam enter the hospital lobby to check in for his 9:00 a.m. surgery. When a nurse enters the waiting room and calls for ‘James Barnes,’ Bucky glances to Sam at his side.   

“That’s you,” he nods in return. Bucky puffs out a stunted breath.  

“Yeah...that’s me,” he sighs, slowly getting up from his chair. Sam stands with him and leans closer to his ear to whisper,  

“I'm waitin’ here the whole time and someone’ll let me back when you’re out of surgery. I’ll be there when you wake up, okay?” Bucky flashes him a nervous smile and nods. Sam presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s gonna be fine, Bucky, promise.”  

“Yeah, you’re right. See ya...later, I guess?” Sam grins back,  

“See ya later.”  

He gives Bucky a reassuring squeeze on the arm before sitting back down and crossing his legs, casual as ever. The brunet trudges toward the nurse, glancing back over his shoulder one more time before entering through those overly-intimidating double doors.  

It’s...cold, or at least his nose feels cold. That’s the first coherent thought Bucky can process. It’s also dark, but that would be...because his eyes are closed.  

Right, duh.  

He remembers following a nurse back to another recovery room so they could prep him for the procedure. He remembers being given anesthesia and  sedation and told to start counting backwards from 100, and then...nothing.   

Guess it worked,  he thinks, gradually feeling the fog lifting from his brain.   

There’s...something else, though—a kind of warmth rubbing delicately over his scalp. He feels the hairs on his head shifting and parting in a steady rhythm, like a kneading sensation across his skin. It feels  really  fucking nice.   

Bucky draws a long, slow breath through his nose, feeling his lungs steadily expand. He almost doesn’t want to open his eyes ever again and just drift through the haze in his mind, relishing the tingling, warm lines sliding over the top of his head.  

However, in a few moments, he remembers something else— someone  else—and eventually works to lift his eyelids.  

Light seeps through immediately, making his pupils sting a little before adjusting. Things are blurry while his vision focuses, but it doesn’t take long to recognize the recovery room he was prepped in earlier. His eyes dart to his right, sensing the presence next to him.  

Raking his gaze up, Bucky feels a small twinge in his chest as he takes in the sight—Sam's sitting comfortably in a plush, leather chair, reading a book, while his left hand absently strokes over and through Bucky’s hair. His movements are gentle and methodical, clearly set on autopilot as he remains absorbed in his novel. He doesn’t seem to notice the brunet’s stirred.  

“Mmm,” hums Bucky, “are you...petting me like a cat?” His voice comes out thick and groggy, but it’s enough to get his boyfriend’s attention. Sam’s eyes dart to meet him and he gives a warm little half-smile before returning his focus to his reading.  

“Yes, I am,” he replies, continuing to pet. “Why, you want me to stop?” A lethargic, dopey grin grows over Bucky’s face.  

“I never said  that,”  he mumbles sheepishly, “was jus’ askin.’” Sam chuckles to himself and finally closes his book, shifting his full consideration to the brunet. He scoots the chair a little closer, leaning down.   

“How ya feeling, then?” he whispers, caressing his thumb across his lover’s hairline. Bucky squirms a bit on the hospital bed, just now noticing where he’s lying, and pulls the blankets further up. He tilts his head to the left, seeing his shoulder wrapped in bandages. He rolls it experimentally and twitches at the lack of feeling.  

“Sleepy...an’ numb,” he yawns, figuring the anesthetic has yet to wear off completely. “How...How’d it go?” Sam rests back against his chair, now twirling his fingers idly in the chestnut locks on top.  

“Totally fine —textbook,  was what Dr. Strange said,” explains Sam. “And, if everything’s  still  fine in the next couple hours, we’ll probably get to go home by, what, maybe  midnight? 1:00 a.m.?”  he laughs, joking about the turnaround times of healthcare facilities. “Since we’re not an emergency case anymore, I imagine it’ll take a little longer than estimate to get you fully discharged.” Bucky blinks hard and licks his dry lips as he turns partially onto his right.  

“Mm-hm...but, y’know,” he starts, “you can go home for a while...if y’want.” Sam crooks his head to the side. “I’ll be fine here on my own...” Now Sam’s the one blinking.  

“Yeah, I know you would,” he smiles, “but you don’t have to be, so I’m gonna stay.” He leans forward to press a tender kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead. “Besides, you’ll need my help when the nurse comes back in to fit you for one of those plastic cone things they put on dogs—keep you from licking at your stitches!” Bucky shoots him a grumpy expression, drawing another brief chuckle out of the man.  

“Bein’ so mean,” he pouts, “when I jus’ came outta  harrowing  surgery.” Sam raises a brow and crosses his arms.  

“What, you want a lollipop or something for being such a  good boy  for the doctors? Should we stop by a candy store on our way home or you want me to ask the nurse for one?” A slightly impish smirk breaks out over the brunet’s cheeks.  

“Well, not a  lollipop,  but...there’s somethin’  else  I wanna suck if we’re talkin’ rewards here,” Bucky lulls, expression simultaneously dreamy and sly. Sam can’t help smirking himself.  

“We are in a public place, baby, you gotta watch what you say,” he insists. The brunet teasingly bites his bottom lip, muttering,  

“Can’t be held responsible for what I say—’m still drugged!” Sam rolls his eyes but relents to his disoriented lover nonetheless.  

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, “I’m sorry about the cone joke! You’re just too fun to mess with like this!” Bucky pouts again but can’t hide his own amusement. “But seriously though,” adds Sam, “nurse mentioned a few things you’ll wanna avoid doing before the stitches come out. I think there’s some kind of sling they want you to wear too, just for support. They’ll come back and explain it all later anyway.”   

“S’better than a  cone,”  giggles Bucky, feeling punchier the longer he’s conscious. Sam grins at him and relaxes back in his chair, resuming the hair-petting, much to his lover’s delight.   

“See, Buck?” he murmurs. “Promised everything would be fine. Nothin’ to worry about anymore.”  

Bucky sighs at the contact and mumbles, “Mm, good...s’glad for...th’Sam F’ctor...” It’s incoherent enough that Sam asks him to repeat himself, but he just waves it off as more senseless delirium.   

Within another 30 minutes, Bucky’s anesthesia wears off completely. He’s sore, but the excruciating pain from before is all but gone. Dr. Strange returns to visit about an hour after that to reiterate how well everything went in surgery. He gives Bucky’s shoulder a quick inspection, seemingly satisfied with the appearance of the wound a couple hours post-op. Strange calls for a nurse to set a follow-up appointment next week and another to remove the stitches the week after.  

Though it isn't midnight when they’re finally discharged, it is getting late—close to dinner time. Sam drives them to pick up some food before heading home. The two eat their meals in peace, Bucky only having occasional trouble managing for himself with one hand. Once both finish, they opt to zonk out in front of the TV until bedtime.   

Bucky can feel his eyelids drooping, the tug of sleep certainly tempting. Sam must notice, because he pats the brunet’s leg and helps him up from the couch cushions, leading them both to their bedroom. At his insistence, Bucky allows Sam to help him get dressed for bed, deciding against mentioning how much of a mother hen he’s being.   

He won’t lie, it’s kind of nice to be doted on from time-to-time.  

Sam arranges and then rearranges the pillows several times before he’s satisfied with the layout.  

“I think it’s probably best you sleep on your right side,” he explains, “with a pillow in front of you,” he places one vertically on Bucky’s half of the bed, “and with me close up behind you—that way you won’t roll onto your bad side during the night.” Bucky smiles fondly at his boyfriend, his devotion to being a good caregiver downright  adorable .  

“You just want an excuse to be the big spoon,” he jokes. “Really, Sam? Using my injury for your own gain? How  crafty!”  Sam puts his hands on his hips and smiles back.  

“Hey, it’s a solid plan! You don’t wanna wake up hurting tomorrow because you slept on your left by mistake, do you?” He shakes his head sarcastically, “If it means I gotta hold you all night from behind, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” Bucky would take the chance to hit him playfully, but he’s too tired and sore to roughhouse. And, if he’s being honest, having Sam spoon him all night sounds pretty good right about now.  

“Alright,” he gives, “you win. If it’s for my  own  health and safety, I’ll gladly accept your  selfless  sacrifice.” Sam struts over and wraps his arms gently around Bucky’s middle, pulling him in for a lazy goodnight kiss.  

“That’s right, baby, I’m doin’ this for  you.”  Sam leaves one more chaste kiss against his lips and grins.   

“Maybe I should have invasive surgery more often,” muses Bucky, “gettin’ such nice treatment!”   

“Don’t get used to it,” he snarks in return.   

Pulling down the covers and turning off the light, both men slip into bed and arrange themselves in the decided positions—Bucky lying on his right, Sam hugging up behind him.   

“Comfortable?” whispers Sam, nuzzling up to the back of his neck. Bucky lets his eyes fall closed and sighs contentedly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes?’” The brunet yawns deeply, already feeling himself drifting. He nods slowly and murmurs,  

“Mm-hm...”  

“Good,” replies Sam. “Lemme know if you need something in the middle of the night, okay?”  

“Mm-hm...”  

“And don’t forget to thank me in your  dreams  tonight, babe!”  

“Mm-hm…”  

“Hah, right, well then, g’night.”  

“...Sam?”  

“Yeah?”  

“...’m glad you’re here this time.”  

“Me too, Buck.”  

“...’nd...love ya.”  

“Love you too.”