Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bucky felt his weariness down to his bones as the elevator climbed toward the living quarters of the Watchtower. He leaned against the back wall, folding his arms across his chest with a sigh.

He didn’t usually find himself there; unlike the rest of the ragtag team, he actually had a home to go back to. The only times he stuck around for more than thirty minutes (which was about when he reached his tolerance limit for idiocy) was for post-mission debriefs, and occasionally crashing in Steve’s old room when it was too late to catch a flight or train back to DC.

But he needed a place to go.

Of all places, he didn’t know why this was the one he’d ended up at. It hadn’t exactly been a thought-out decision; almost subconscious, which almost made it stranger.

Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to be alone. And he didn’t really have anyone else.

He hadn’t even needed a place to go, not really. Sam hadn’t kicked him out — he wouldn’t do that. But they had fought, and it had been — a lot. Too much. 

They’d argued before — hell, of course they had, they’d hated each others’ guts for years — but that was petty. Arguing for the sake of hearing their own voices, with the exception of their fight over Steve’s shield. Besides that, this had been their first real argument — with raised voices and explosive gestures and hurtful words that didn't just sting but that cut deep, and, eventually, Bucky slipping out silently after Sam had retreated to their bedroom and locked the door behind him.

Their fight — it had been frustrating, to put it lightly. For both of them, Bucky was sure, but for him especially, because he knew Sam was right, but he had kept arguing against the fact, because he had to, when it came to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, and how fucked-up it was that someone like her was publicly representing the name of the Avengers. 

Bucky scrubbed a harsh hand over his face, thinking back to the fight, the words still loud in his ears.

“Illegal human experimentation ring a bell, Buck?” Sam had challenged, voice raised in his agitation; this wasn’t the first time they had argued about this, but it was the first time they had argued like this. 

“Remember that? Remember when you were all about getting her impeached, scraping through everything, combing through every last file for that piece of damning evidence that everyone knows is out there? Remember when she kept staying one step ahead, but you kept pursuing it, because you wanted to take her down?”

“I know, Sam,” Bucky had grit out — not meeting his gaze, because he had never been a very good liar. “I know, but —,”

“No, you don’t, because if you did, then you would know she shouldn’t be the one calling the shots for your ‘team’,” Sam had snapped, shaking his head. He had seemed to hesitate for a moment, before barreling on in a rush. 

“You used to care, Bucky. You used to fight against people like this. And now you’re just —,” Regret had flickered over his face before he had even finished speaking — “just a lapdog for another greater evil?”

“Don’t,” Bucky had snarled, the low blow landing right where it hurt. He had recoiled, taking a step back. Hurt had ached painfully at his chest, momentarily making his own frustration at himself ebb. “Don’t, Sam.”

That regret had still been on Sam’s face, his expression tight, but he had stood his ground. 

“Buck,” he had murmured, “I’m sorry. I just — I don’t understand why.” His gaze had searched Bucky’s, sharp and intense. Bucky had looked away. Had seen Sam’s expression crumple a little bit. “Just talk to me,” he had all but pleaded.

“You think I want this?” Bucky had snapped — the closest he had come to revealing the truth of things. His throat had been tight, his chest aching. “You don’t —,” He had cut himself off, then, turning his face away, his jaw working tightly. 

“You don’t know everything, Sam,” he had growled out eventually.

“You’re right.” Sam’s voice had softened — not from gentleness, but from sadness. “I don’t know anything, because you won’t talk to me. We’re supposed to work together. We're supposed to have each others’ backs, Buck. And that means trusting each other. But right now, it seems like I can’t trust you, and it seems like you don’t trust me.” He had hesitated, and then: “Tell me I’m wrong.”

But Bucky hadn’t been able to, because Sam had been right.

He had watched Sam sigh, mutter out I thought so. He had watched him throw one last sad look his way before turning and walking into their room, closing the door behind him. 

Bucky hadn’t followed. Not because he hadn’t wanted to; because he hadn’t deserved to.

And then everything had been too much, and Bucky had grabbed his backpack, tied on his boots, and left without another word, shutting the door with a quiet click behind him.

It wasn’t that he disagreed — it wasn’t. He had been the damn forerunner for that impeachment — had pushed for it, harder than anyone, because it was fucking personal. He knew better than anyone (except for maybe Bob, if he ever remembered) what Valentina had done; why she of all people should never be associated with helping anyone. Especially after receiving the files on Sentry Project.

Mel was the one keeping him in the loop about Valentina — whatever she had seen in the Void had solidified her ‘crisis of loyalty’ into a full-on betrayal towards her boss. She had sent the files to him four days after New York on an encoded hard drive — hundreds upon hundreds of files documenting sickening levels of illegal human experimentation, endless torture and abuse that had made Bucky’s stomach turn over; that had made the things he had seen in the Void stir up in the back of his mind.

Yeah. It was personal.

He had seen those files, and it had solidified what he had already known: that Valentina could not continue to be a figure of heroics in the public eye. Especially not one associated with the damn Avengers.

He had shown them to Yelena. Told her, then, that they needed to break away from Valentina’s influence or not be a team at all — because staying meant dragging down the very names that had once defined what it meant to be an Avenger. Tony, Natasha. Steve.

“Besides the fact that Valentina’s a fucking monster,” he had muttered to her, still on-edge after going through all of the files himself, “who would ever trust any of us at all, if this came out on its own, and she was still going around acting like she hand-picked us all to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes 2.0?”

“Bucky, I understand what you mean,” Yelena had replied quietly, a drink in one hand as she scanned over the computer screen — because anyone who was able to get drunk would, going through it all. “And it is — it is inhumane. The things she did. Not just that. It is inhuman. But . . .” 

Bucky had scoffed as she had continued, forcefully strengthening her voice. 

“But, we need her right now. You know that as much as I do, Bucky. We are not the Avengers, but with her, we are able to do the things that they did — to save people. To help people. She is why we are able to do anything at all.”

“And I’m telling you,” Bucky had told her flatly, “that if we don’t break away from her now — or at least, if we don’t do it first, before something else about her comes out, because it will — we will stay tied to her forever. The Avengers name will be defined by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, just as the name of the Winter Soldier will always be tied to Hydra.” 

That had silenced Yelena. Especially as she reached the file labeled with the name ROBERT REYNOLDS at the top. The file detailed how they’d torn a man apart to make a god — dosed him, broke him, fractured his mind until he could barely tell what was real. 

Hydra all over again, just under a different name.

Yelena had only skimmed its contents for a moment before beginning to look faintly sick, the pursed line of her lips the only thing revealing her confliction. She had looked back up at Bucky, who had held her gaze steadily.

“Alright, then,” she had said eventually. “Alright. Listen. We need her right now, just as she needs us. But as soon as we have that credibility, the ability to take her in — we leave her floundering, and then do just that.” She had gestured to the files. 

“We publish all of this, we make a case, and we give her no helping hands; we help to push her down. Да?”

“Fine,” Bucky had agreed, weary but, to a point, understanding. 

It had been a frustrating compromise to make, but it was one that they were actively working towards, pushing Valentina back the more public-facing they got as Mel fed Bucky more information under the table — information condemning Valentina, but not any of the members of the team, half of whom didn’t even know about their ulterior motives where she was concerned.

Only Bucky and Yelena, and Ava — who was arguably the only other competent one out of the other four, if you didn’t count her tendency to go AWOL for weeks at a time (though Bucky couldn’t really get onto anyone about that, seeing as he did the same thing) — knew about their plans for Valentina. Well — them, and their really, really good lawyer.

That was why they couldn’t risk anything going wrong — anything slipping out before their case was airtight and shoehorned no blame onto them despite how Valentina would undoubtedly try to twist the narrative to fit her agenda. 

(When they had agreed to the plan, Bucky had known he’d be prepared to lie to the public. To the rest of the team. To Valentina, of course, who still showed up every few days to remind them of her sharklike smile and too-bright teeth.

But in his urgency, he hadn’t factored in that he would be lying to Sam, too.)

It had been a frustrating compromise to make — but, despite the fact that it had only been a few months since, Bucky thought that they were finally on the path to bringing Valentina down. To breaking her away from the Avengers name and bringing her back to the Congressional floor, to getting that impeachment through against her, even if Bucky was no longer a direct part of that.

He had resigned from Congress eight days after everything had gone down in New York City. He had been able to play it off to Sam as the action, and his new involvement in a team that wasn’t a bunch of old men (himself included) sitting around in an office, making him realize he hated politics, which had been a half-truth — and the same bullshit he’d fed to the public, all while Valentina watched with that smug little smirk.

Really, though, he was working directly against her, not abiding by her plans. He had just needed free reign outside of the constraints of Congressional duties, free reign alongside the rest of the New Avengers — which he had doubted even really wanting to be a part of at all at first, tempted to just drag Valentina in himself, everything be damned. Especially after Mel had sent him the Sentry Project files — he had had to force himself to show Yelena, and not march right back onto the House Floor.

But — well. A few things stopped him.

Yelena had tracked him down two days after everything, before his resignation, when he had been avoiding calling her back like he had said he would when he had gone back to DC. Bucky had nearly shot her in the chest with the gun he kept under the kitchen counter as he had shuffled out of bed, grumpy and insomnia-ridden, and found her perched on the windowsill, waiting. She had laughed at that (obnoxiously loudly, it had been a miracle Sam hadn’t woken up) before getting serious about the situation.

“This is a chance for you,” she had told him, when he had kept deflecting. “A chance to be a hero.”

“I’m no hero,” Bucky had said, tired and resigned, wishing he hadn’t been kept awake late at night by his mind reminding him of just that. “I’m barely a good person.”

“And you think I am?” She had laughed at him again. “That any one of us are? That is why we are doing this. To help people, yes — but it is a chance. What is it Walker called it? A clean slate.” Yelena had nodded then, regarding him with a sharp gaze.

“This is a chance to be good,” she had said, softer. And then she had slipped away, leaving Bucky to mull after that.

He had mulled, he very much had, and it hadn’t taken long to relent. Especially after the other thing. 

When Steve had called him the next morning and told him, in a voice rasping with age, that he had seen the news, and that he was proud of him. 

Thinking back to that now, Bucky sighed, bitter. Steve wouldn’t be as proud of him if he knew everything about Valentina, or about all of his secrets, and about how he and Sam had fought in circles because Bucky couldn’t even tell him he was right.

(Steve had always known how to do the right thing. 

Bucky wasn’t sure he could say the same.)

He tiredly trudged his way out of the open doors of the elevator and into the Avengers’ living quarters. He had nothing but his single backpack slung over one shoulder, which he had grabbed before he had left his and Sam’s apartment, walking in somewhat of a daze to the train station and buying a one-way ticket for an evening train to NYC without even really thinking about it. 

He still didn’t really know why he had come here. He would’ve been fine anywhere. 

That same thought came back to him, for a moment: that maybe, he hadn’t wanted to be alone.

The five who lived here were loud, insufferable, and often worse than any argument with Sam — but still, it felt like — like family, in a strange way. In a way Bucky hadn’t felt since he had been fighting his way through enemy lines with the Howling Commandos alongside him. And whereas Sam was his Captain, these people were his team, just as with Steve and the Howlies back in the day. Whether he liked that or not.

At least a couple of them, he could somewhat tolerate. And — speak of the devil.

Yelena was sitting in the common room, which smelled faintly of popcorn and takeout, flipping through TV channels as she sat sprawling across the length of the couch. A glance at the kitchen clock told Bucky that it was almost eleven at night, but he wasn’t surprised to see her up; he was more surprised to not see more of them. Most of them had insomnia, or nightmares, or some combination of the two. But he certainly wasn’t complaining about not having to deal with John or Alexei right now.

“Hey,” Yelena said, breaking the silence between them without glancing over at him. “Why are you here?”

Bucky shifted his pack on his shoulder, stuffing his left hand into his pocket. “None of your business,” he said flatly, and Yelena shrugged.

“I don’t really care, anyway,” she replied, sparing him a glance and a raised brow. Bucky nodded, weary but smiling despite himself. 

“Good,” he said, as he turned to trudge down the hallway to the bedrooms. “Keep it that way.”

He walked all the way down to the end of the hallway and shouldered open the door to Steve’s old room, locking it behind him. When he had first needed to stay overnight at the Tower (after an exhausting two-day mission pulling survivors from the rubble of an attack, they were worn thin from going nonstop; Alexei had quipped to Bucky, ‘Ah, Winter Soldier, I thought you do not get tired?’, and Bucky had nearly punched him in the face), he had learned that Walker had taken that room. One of the only reasons he had stayed at all, then, was to make sure he corrected that. 

Bucky slung his backpack — which was mostly just weapons and his phone — off his shoulder. He pulled out his phone with his vibranium hand, tossing the bag onto the bed with the other, and winced as he turned it on, gaze roving over the missed texts and calls from Sam.

Sam (9:31 pm) Where are you

Sam (9:33 pm) You can’t just leave when you’re losing an argument 

Sam (9:45 pm) Seriously though are you good 

Sam (9:46 pm) Give me a sign of life Buck

Sam (10:07 pm) Bucky

Bucky ground his teeth together in frustration, squinting at the bright screen. His fingers hovered over the little keyboard. He stared at Sam’s name at the top of the screen. At the little circle profile photo that he’d taken of himself, smirking and winking at the camera. That ache was back to twisting in Bucky’s chest as he stared.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing a little at that bone-deep, weary hurt, before slowly typing out a short response. 

Me (10:55 pm) I’m fine Sam

He had already started typing out another response to let him know he wouldn’t be back that night when his phone began to ring. SAM WILSON IS CALLING, his phone practically screamed at him in huge, blocky letters. Bucky hesitated, before reluctantly accepting the call.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Buck.” Sam sounded tired. There was a sigh in his voice. “Where are you?”

There was no use not telling him, and Bucky was tired of lying to him, anyway. “New York,” he said.

“New Yo —,” Sam cut himself off. Bucky could practically see him rubbing at his face in exasperation as he listened to Sam exhale a heavy breath. “At the Tower?” He asked eventually, voice tight.

“Yeah.” Bucky hunched over himself, running his right hand through his hair and closing his eyes.

“You didn’t have to go.” Sam sounded frustrated. “We could’ve talked it out. I was just cooling off, I wasn’t gonna stay in our room all night. I figured you just went for a walk, but then you didn’t come back.” He seemed to hesitate, and then: “You always come back.”

“I was going to, I just . . .” Bucky clenched and unclenched his jaw, exhaling deeply through his nose. How could he explain to Sam why he had come here? Even he didn’t fully know the reasons why. But, fuck, he owed it to Sam to be able to explain things to him. “I needed space to think, Sam.”

“Funny thing.” Sam’s voice was sharp, edged with hurt. “When I need to think, I usually don’t go to a place with people.” 

“I don’t — I don’t know why I came here, alright?” Bucky bit out. He hated the way his words sounded out loud. Like excuses. Like the cowardice of running away, because he had been too sick to his stomach at the thought of going back home and having to lie to Sam again. 

“I don’t know. I just — I needed a minute, and then I was at the station, and I needed to go somewhere, but I didn’t want to be —,”

Alone.

Bucky cut himself off. Over the line, he heard squeaking that he recognized as their bed, and he ached. He could see, in his mind’s eye, Sam sitting there on the edge, or maybe lying back, by himself, because Bucky had left him alone. 

The thought made the ache in his chest turn ugly; a writhing mass of emotion that nearly strangled him from the inside out.

“You didn’t have to leave,” Sam murmured eventually. “You should come home.”

Bucky drew in a shaky breath. 

He wanted to say, I did, I did have to leave, because if I looked at you and lied for one more second, I wouldn’t have been able to take it. He wanted to say, I hate working under Valentina as much as you do, even though she has no control I feel like I’m doing bad again even when we’re doing good, it hurts and I’m tired and I hate it, and I'm trying to protect you, but it's hurting you. He wanted to say, I’m sorry. I’ll come home. I’ll tell you the truth. 

Instead he said, “I’ll call you back later, Sam”, and hung up the phone.

He tossed it back into his bag, which he put on the dresser by the bed, and then sat on the edge of the mattress, sliding off his boots. After a moment, he lay back against the pillows, which were stiff with disuse, and he just . . . lay there, restless, his mind wandering.

Why had he come all the way here? 

He and Sam had disagreements sometimes — especially recently — but he usually did just take a walk. He’d loop around their apartment block, wander down streets, maybe stop a mugging to feel a little better about himself, and then he would come home. They would talk in sheepish mumbles, make up in the dark of their room, and fall asleep in the same bed. Everything would be fine the next morning.

But this really had been their first real fight — one borne from genuine anger, and not just frustration. 

And the worst part was, Bucky couldn’t even argue back properly, couldn’t tell Sam he was right — because he was. Because everything Sam had accused Valentina of, every instinct and suspicion, had been dead-on. 

And Bucky had just stood there. Playing his part. Doing the job. 

He couldn’t get Sam to understand that he understood, because if he did, he might jeopardize everything as they tried to take her down from the inside.

It was too complicated, too convoluted, especially with someone like Sam, who, as Captain America, was literally a whole branch of government in and of himself, and the last thing they needed right now was for the government to know about what they really had on Valentina.

That was how their whole case fell apart, and, if Sam did get involved, that was how not only the Avengers, but Captain America, fell apart, too. No hero could be a hero, when no one trusted them to protect, to save.

It was rational. Bucky not telling Sam made sense.

But he still felt like he had completely let him down.

Chapter Text

Bucky lay awake, unblinking and staring up at the ceiling — wondering how many times Steve had done the same thing in this very bed, wondering if it was what Sam was doing right now. Wondering which side of the bed he was sleeping on, with the whole thing to himself. 

The thought made something in his chest ache. He thought about what Steve had said on the phone after New York — that he was proud of him. Proud of him for doing good. He thought about what Yelena had said, that this was a chance to be good. 

That all felt far away now, as he lay there motionless. Far away, hollow, empty. Or maybe just undeserved, seeing as all the ‘good’ he was doing was only hurting the people — or, really, the person — he cared about the most. 

He heard Yelena making her way back to her room around one in the morning, humming some old Russian nursery rhyme. A little while later, he heard a door open down the hallway, and then heard shuffling footsteps that he recognized as Alexei’s. There was a brief pause of silence, before the air conditioning whirred to life, and then Alexei retreated, with a very loud yawn, back into his room. Probably to sleep, unlike Bucky. 

Bucky sighed. He resisted the urge to pick up his phone. He lay there, and stared at the ceiling, and thought about Sam and Steve and Valentina and Yelena and everything he had done wrong. He thought about the train he had taken here; how he had bought the ticket and sat down and stared out the window, not thinking about anything, disassociating and letting himself sink into the feeling of not feeling. He thought about how he almost felt like he was still in that mindless state, but how it was harder to cling to when he actually wanted to.

He thought about all of this for a long time, and it wasn’t until around 3:30 that he was finally starting to drift off.

And that was when he heard a choking, quiet noise of distress coming from the room next to his own.

Bucky shot up in an instant. He grabbed a small loaded handgun from his backpack on the floor, squeezing it tightly in both hands as he stood and slipped silently out into the hall, positioning himself to listen into the other room. 

He knew that that was Bob’s room, so he wasn’t taking any chances with the man who had once been Sentry, once been the Void, because even after reading the files on what had been done to him, there had been painfully nothing about him. They had nothing on why his memories were gone — and if they could come back. And whether or not that would make him . . . snap.

Bucky angled his head towards Bob’s door, holding his breath, and listened.

But all he could hear was — 

Sobbing. Quiet, strangled. 

Something in his chest twisted. He clenched his jaw tightly, holstering the gun into his waistline and exhaling a breath through his teeth. 

Asshole, he thought to himself, resentful and half-hearted. He’s not you. He’s not a weapon. He’s just a man. He’s just . . . hurting. 

He knew that that was true — that he was hurting — because of Yelena. She had taken to calling him not infrequently — usually late at night — to probe him for how to help someone with issues like Bob’s. 

It wasn’t because she was inexperienced in the trauma that most of them shared; she had been through hell, just like they all had. But she was inexperienced in trying to heal from it, so she had asked him — first just for Bob, and then for herself, too, which they never talked about outside of late-night phone conversations. 

Sam had actually helped with that. Licensed counselor and all. He knew more than Bucky did about providing help rather than just receiving it. And as much issue he took with the New Avengers, he could still set it aside to help someone out, because he was just that damn good.

But, all of that aside: Bob was hurting. He had been through shit — a lot of it — and Bucky knew that, logically. He was just tense, on-edge, as he lurked in the darkness of the hallway. It had taken hearing that sob that he recognized from the Void, muffled from behind the door but loud in his ears all the same, for him to relax, even minimally; to remind himself that this was not Sentry, but just Bob.

Still, Bucky hesitated. He stood there, unsure, listening to the quiet sobs, until a memory stirred in the back of his mind: the memory of himself after a nightmare, pressed back against the headboard with a fist shoved into his mouth to muffle his cries as Sam sat on the edge of the bed, putting a distance between them after Bucky had snarled don’t touch me, please don’t touch me. The memory of Sam just sitting there and talking to him and pulling him out of the terror, out of the fear, out of the pain, and helping. 

(Sam had always been there, always. Had always had Bucky’s back. Had always known how to help.

And when Bucky should have returned the favor, he had just bought a one-way ticket.)

Well. Maybe Bucky could bring something good out of this whole mess, by helping someone else. By doing something worth being proud of, to give himself that small bit of solace for Steve’s sake. And for Sam’s. And for his own.

And so, silent as a shadow, he opened Bob’s bedroom door and slipped inside.

He scanned his gaze over the room, which was identical to Steve’s beside it, but with a lot more personality than those abandoned four walls. There were books everywhere, a couple of band posters tacked up on the walls, and a CD player on the dresser next to piles of open snack bags, all illuminated by the dim light of a lava lamp. The bed was unmade and messy, blankets trailing onto the floor, the discarded covers all leading to where Bob was crouching in the corner. 

He didn’t look — all the way there. He was wearing pajamas, hair messy from sleep, and was pressing back against the wall with his head buried in his hands as he mumbled frantically to himself, fingers digging into his pale skin as he shook. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, feeling out-of-place and all kinds of wrong, trying to be a person who helped in more ways than just offering shitty late-night advice. “You okay?”

The man in front of him jerked wildly. His eyes went huge with fear, his head jolting up and banging against the wall. Bob didn’t even flinch, seemingly too out of it to react, but Bucky winced, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Goddammit, he thought. Poor kid.

“Hey, hey. Take it easy,” he soothed, best he could. He dropped down on one knee in front of the panicking man, spreading out his palms in a calming gesture. “You’re alright.”

“Sorry — I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bob was rambling, hands twisting and wringing together as he shrank back against the corner, knees drawn up to his chest.  

“I’m not gonna hurt you, pal,” Bucky said quietly, working to keep his voice steady. “You’re safe here.”

Bob’s gaze jerked up, face streaked with tears. He looked confused, lost, and it made something inside Bucky twist, ugliness clawing at him from his stomach — because he recognized that look, recognized that desperation. And Bob may not be like him in the sense that his dark side was going to burst back out if someone said a few words, but he certainly was like him in other ways. Like right now.

(Bucky wondered if this was how Sam had seen him, in moments like this — small and desperate and afraid. 

Had he felt this same ugliness? He couldn’t have, Bucky thought; he must’ve felt only aching, soft sympathy and care, because Sam was good, too good. Too good, too kind. Especially for someone like him. Sam, who had never flinched, never looked at him like he was broken, in moments like these. Sam, who had just sat with him, steady and patient. 

Bucky could . . . he could at least try to do the same. Could try to help someone who was hurting, because he knew what it was like to be on the other side of that. And then, at least, it would feel like buying that one-way ticket had done something other than hurt Sam.)

Bucky settled down to sit across from the younger man, a good enough distance between them that Bob wouldn’t feel trapped, where he was still pressing himself back into the corner. Bucky stayed quiet, waiting patiently until Bob’s expression began to clear, his tears falling slower and his hands stilling in his lap.

“I think I — I think I was dreaming,” Bob whispered after a long while, breaking the silence between them. His gaze was darting all around the room, to the shadows in the corners, and a shudder ran through his body as he looked down at his hands.

“I — I did something. Something bad. That’s what I dreamed about.”

If Steve or Sam were here, and if this were Bucky pressed into the corner, they would probably be quick to reassure him. You didn’t do anything, they would say. You are James Bucky Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, and no matter what memories you have, that wasn’t you. 

But Bucky wasn’t saying those things. Not because they didn’t help; they did, sometimes. But, more often than not, they did nothing, or even made him feel worse — because those were his memories, and he did do them. Just like, even though Bob didn’t remember what he had done as Sentry (unlike Bucky, who remembered everything the Winter Soldier had done), some part of him did. Some subconscious part of him what he had done. And Bucky didn’t want to confuse him any more than he already was.

So he stayed quiet, and he let Bob speak. 

“The darkness inside of me,” Bob continued softly. “It — it’s always been there. It’s why I started with the drugs, y’know? A way to — to make it quiet. To try and keep it down. But now, it feels . . . it feels too real. It feels like — too much.” He clutched at his shirt, fingers trembling. “Like it’s — it’s always there, and I — I have to work to keep it down, I can’t just — just shoot up, or run away. I have to deal with it, and it’s —,” His breath shuddered audibly. “It’s worse than it’s ever been.”

“I understand.” Bucky did speak, then. Soft, quiet. He remembered when he had gone without maintenance for too long while out on a mission; how emotion would start creeping into his chest, burning him from the inside out, settling over him like choking smoke until he could barely breathe, confused and scared and hurt and alone.

And then Hydra would wipe him, and that feeling would be gone, and he would be numb again. Unfeeling, emotionless. Just a weapon to be used and put away as needed. Not a person. 

Once he was free — once he was James Bucky Barnes, no longer the Winter Soldier, no longer a weapon and once more a person — the emotion never left. It burned, unrelenting. 

And there was no Chair, no cryostasis, no handler to erase it now. There was just the darkness. Just him. 

Just the ugly thing in his stomach, twisting and writhing and reminding him of everything he had done wrong. 

“I understand,” Bucky said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for a moment before speaking, because he knew what needed to be said, but it was damn hard; something it had taken him a long time to accept, because he was happy (happy with Sam, happy with finally having a home), but . . .  “That feeling — it doesn’t go away.”

In front of him, Bob let out a shaky breath, dropping his head in between his knees. “I — I figured,” he mumbled. He was wringing his hands together again, his knuckles popping weakly.

“But,” Bucky continued firmly, leaning forward slightly, and Bob looked back up at him. “When you find people . . . people to be around, to make you feel safe, to make you feel like you are safe . . .” 

He let out a long breath. He thought of Steve, and he thought of Sam, and his chest ached.  

“It gets easier.”

“Easier?” Bob echoed.

“Less like that darkness is going to crawl out and consume everything,” Bucky said, a slight tremor in his voice, in his hands. He clenched them into fists. “Less like it’s uncontrollable. Less like it’s you.” 

Bob looked at him with something almost akin to curiosity, a strange look alongside the desperation and pain in his expression. He hummed quietly, as if in thought. His hands slowly twisted together in front of him. 

“It . . . it doesn’t go away,” he murmured, questioning.

“Not fully, no.” Bucky shook his head. “It hasn’t for me.”

“But it’s . . .” Bob’s brow furrowed, tight. He tilted his head a little to one side. “It’s gotten better? Easier?”

Bucky almost smiled, but he didn’t, because he still ached. “It has,” he said, and it was the truth. He thought of Steve, of Sam. Of Wakanda and Delacroix. Of, against his better judgment, the ragtag group of assholes that had dragged him into their mess and their lives, including the one right in front of him.

“Will you show me?”

Bucky stiffened as Bob spoke, the tentative question feeling like a dangerous ground. He thought back to the Void — to fighting through the worst moments of his too-long life in the darkness of what felt like Hell, because of the half of Bob that the man didn’t remember. 

He thought back to the Void, and he stared into Bob’s eyes, searching for that half of him — but all he saw there was a desperate, earnest curiosity. A need to understand. 

Because he was not a weapon, he was only a man — a man who was hurting, and who wanted to know how to not be.

(And — if it worked — maybe it could serve as a reminder for Bucky, too. Could soothe the ache in his chest, just a little. But even if he was plunged right back into his worst nightmares, maybe that familiarity wouldn’t be so bad right now, either.)

“Okay,” Bucky said. 

He held out his flesh hand, closing his eyes. He felt Bob take his hand in his own — it was a loose hold, their fingers wrapped lightly together, but Bucky could see the light shifting behind his eyelids, and knew that it had worked the moment their skin had touched.

He was afraid, a little, because of course he was. He knew from Yelena that Bob could use his telepathy without slipping into the Void; without falling into that endless loop of memories and pain. It could be shaped by emotion instead — pulled from feeling, not trauma. He knew that that was something they had been working on. 

But Bucky had — well, he had mostly steered clear of that aspect of the team. He liked Bob, he did, and he cared about him, sure (more than most of if not all of the rest of the team, to be honest), but he just — he didn’t want to go through all of that again. He had spent so damn long healing, and it had nearly destroyed him, having to fight his way out of it all, all over again, in the Void.

(So then, why had he offered his hand?

Another thing that he knew, and yet did not know.)

When Bucky slowly opened his eyes, he found himself standing in the lobby of the Watchtower. He frowned a little — he had just been there before coming up to the living area floor, and it felt all too familiar compared to the memories of the war and Hydra that he had seen in the Void — before realizing that the space was littered with destruction, the van he had driven into the side of the building still in the middle of it. This, he knew, was after the battle in New York City.

Moments later, as he watched — and as Bob watched, standing silent at his side — the memory of himself came stumbling into the rubble of the lobby of the building, clutching his left shoulder. His face was smeared with dirt, grime, and blood, and he looked utterly exhausted, utterly spent.

“What happened?” Bob whispered in Bucky’s ear, and Bucky chose his words carefully; Bob still didn’t know the full extent of what he had done, as Sentry and the Void in New York. 

“I had . . . seen things. Remembered things, during a fight,” Bucky murmured. He glanced at Bob for a moment, and then back at the memory of himself, who, he remembered, was retreating from the press and the rest of the team, hiding away as he sunk down to the ground in the middle of the destruction, head bowed, shuddering violently. “Things that reminded me of the bad things I had done.” It was an understatement.

In front of them, the past version of Bucky’s hands shook as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number with trembling fingers and held his phone up to his ear. The moment whoever was on the other line answered, the visible distress on his face softened. 

Watching him, Bucky realized what was coming, and the ugly ache twisted itself in circles in his stomach.

“Hey, Sam,” the memory whispered, so quiet that Bob and Bucky shouldn’t have been able to hear him. But they did, just as clearly as they heard the man speaking on the other side of the line.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky.” Sam’s voice was thick, heavy with relief, and it made past Bucky’s face soften further. “Are you okay? Where are you? What the hell is going on? I saw the news — they told me to stay put, but I’ll come get you, just tell me where you are —,”

“No. No,” Bucky interrupted him quickly, and then he was standing on shaky legs, gaze wandering to the truck that he had driven into the building. He was still shaking as he walked over to it and yanked up the back latch, eyes falling onto his Harley that he had loaded in there before driving towards the fight.

“I’m . . . I’m coming home,” he whispered.

The memory faded. Bob was still holding on to Bucky’s hand, clinging tighter now.

When the darkness passed, giving way to a new memory, Bucky recognized the inside of his and Sam’s apartment. The door was open, and Sam was standing there, staring at Bucky in front of him, who was smiling weakly, looking somehow even more exhausted. 

As the two of them watched, Sam put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and then pulled him into a hug that Bucky did not return but did lean into, closing his eyes and burying his face in Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s good to see you, Buck.” Sam’s voice shook slightly, and Bucky was smiling as he breathed out a quiet affirmative. Sam kept his hand on his shoulder as he helped him inside, as he kneeled down in front of him to clean the dirt from his face, as he helped him take off his vibranium arm and thanked him for coming home. 

As he watched in the corner, Bob standing silent at his side, the ugly thing in Bucky’s stomach was twisting itself tighter and tighter. 

It hurt, seeing this now. It hurt, because here was Sam, welcoming him home. The home Bucky had left. The home that he ached to return to. You should come home, Sam had said, when they had talked on the phone just a few hours ago. But could he? Could he really, when he hadn’t been being fully honest with him for months? 

He remembered this night, even if he didn’t know why it had been the one that had risen to the surface for him and Bob to enter back into. He remembered Sam — being there, helping him, holding him. He remembered that Sam had told him that, around him, he could be anything.  

But Bucky knew that a liar shouldn’t be one of those things. 

They weren’t supposed to be keeping things from each other; not anymore. Not after how much they had gone through together, to get to where they were now.

(You should come home, Sam had said.

But would he welcome him back, just the same?)

As the memory faded once more, they were still in the apartment, but had moved to the bedroom, rather than the couch. In the corner beside Bob, Bucky looked away. He remembered this. 

He had barely been able to sleep that night despite his overwhelming exhaustion, and when he had, he had jolted awake within an hour, fear chasing him awake as the Void had haunted him even in sleep. 

He had woken up screaming, and Sam had been there. Was there now, right in front of them.

This piece of the memory that they were in was after Bucky had already stopped panicking, stopped gasping for breath and seizing at his chest with his right hand. Now, he had fallen silent, head bowed and arm wrapped around himself protectively, and Sam was talking to him. Reminding him that he was home. Reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

In the corner next to Bob, Bucky exhaled a shuddering breath and looked over at his companion, who was watching the memory play out with tears in his eyes, shining in the half-light of the bedroom.

(It was strange, seeing it all laid out like this — the way Sam had pulled him back from the edge. 

And now he was doing the same for someone else. It was almost enough for all of this to feel worth it.)

“It gets better,” Bucky croaked out eventually, nodding at Bob and then towards the memory of himself and Sam, the memory that made him ache. In front of them, Sam had taken Bucky’s hand in his own, and Bucky was leaning into him — a shared moment of peace after pain. “When you let people help you.”

Bob blinked at him, something in his face crumpling. The memory went dark, and when it came back into focus, it wasn’t one of Bucky’s. Instead, the two of them were standing in the doorway to Bob’s bedroom, the door shut behind them.

They watched as Bob shot awake from his nightmare with that same wounded, distressed sound Bucky had heard. Watched as he scrambled out of bed and collapsed in the corner, terrified and shaking. He pressed his back into the wall, chest heaving, eyes wide and wet and empty. His hands clamped over his ears, his whole frame trembling with the force of it.

And then they watched as Bucky entered the room — quiet, calm — and sat down beside him. 

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. He was simply there. A steady presence in the aftermath of fear. A reminder.

(Reminding him, though maybe not through as many words as Sam, that he was home. Reminding him that he wasn’t alone.)

And then they were back, grounded in reality, and Bob was still holding Bucky’s hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered, all earnestness and awe. Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to speak but also not letting go, not pulling away.

“Bob?” The sudden voice in the doorway made Bucky startle and Bob jump. He did let go, then, leaving Bucky to slowly retract his hand. 

Yelena was standing there, hair slightly ruffled but otherwise looking wide awake. Bucky thought she must have been doing the same thing he had been doing — lying awake, staring at the ceiling, until she had heard them from down the hallway. He glanced at the clock up on the dresser; only a couple of minutes had passed, outside of their memories. 

“What happened?” Yelena asked, looking between where the two of them were still on the floor, Bob surrounded by rumpled blankets. Her gaze lingered on where she could clearly see the small handgun in the line of Bucky’s pants, but she said nothing about it.

“He had a nightmare,” Bucky said, quiet but blunt. Yelena’s expression twisted.

“I told you, Bob, you can come to me when you do,” she said to him, gentler than Bucky ever heard her with anyone but him. Bob looked down, twisting his hands together.

“It — it was just too much. I couldn’t think,” he whispered, and Bucky was reminded of the things he’d wanted to say, talking to Sam on the phone. “Too much of — of everything.” Bob shot Bucky an almost furtive glance, and the barest hint of a tentative smile. “He — he helped.”

Yelena was quiet as she crouched down beside them both, leaning back against the unmade bed. She scanned her gaze over Bob, and was clearly relieved at whatever she saw or didn’t see. She looked over at Bucky, giving him one of the most genuine smiles he had ever seen from her.

“Спасибо,” she said in soft Russian. Thank you. 

Bucky gave her a nod and a tense smile of his own before looking back over at Bob. “You gonna be alright, pal?” He asked, and Bob nodded with a tired look in his eye.

“I — I think I’m good,” he said softly, glancing between him and Yelena, rubbing at his hand that he had held Bucky’s in as though clinging to the memories that Bucky had shared with him. Bucky nodded again, his smile a little more genuine, then stood slowly. 

“Let me know if you need me,” he told them both, and then he retreated back into his room, locking the door behind him. He listened for a moment — listened to the soft murmur of Bob and Yelena’s voices — before tossing the gun back into his bag and easing himself back in bed, his chest heaving slightly, the sound of their voices fading as he became more and more untethered.

His mind was spinning, his stomach churning. It gets easier. His words, said to Bob, who he had watched tremble in fear, crushed underneath the weight of memories and guilt that he didn’t understand, and who he had helped pull out from underneath that weight. 

But when you find people . . . people to be around, to make you feel safe, to make you feel like you are safe . . . it gets easier.

He had meant it. He had believed it — he did believe it.

But now, lying in the dark and staring up at the ceiling, he realized that he hadn’t said those words just for Bob. They were things that he had needed to hear, too. It was why his mind had taken him to those memories, had guided Bob’s hand that had been squeezing his; to remind Bob that he wasn’t alone, but also, to remind himself. And he had seen that, again and again, through those memories — through Sam’s arms pulling him into safety, into home. 

Through Sam’s arms — the same ones he was pushing away now. Through a one-way ticket. Through an end call button. 

He had been afraid of everything falling apart, if he had let Sam in. Everything, from the Avengers’ legacy to this newfound team he had found himself to be a part of to Steve’s pride in him — to the home he had built with Sam. Everything.

But the truth was, when he didn’t let Sam in, he fell apart.

He needed Sam — needed home — just as much as Bob had needed him tonight.

(And that was why he had come to the Tower, wasn’t it? Searching for a home that he hadn’t found, even with people that he begrudgingly did care about. But he hadn’t found it here. He couldn’t have — not when he’d walked away from the one person who was home. And even if things were hard right now, so damn hard, Bucky knew that that would never change. For him, at least.)

Bucky’s hands trembled as he pulled his phone back out, sitting up in bed and leaning against the headboard. He ignored the six messages Sam had left him and called him instead, not letting himself hesitate, knowing that if he did, it would be just as bad as running all over again.

But the phone went to voicemail — it was four in the damn morning, after all, and of course Sam was probably sleeping, alone in their bed where Bucky had left him — and Bucky exhaled a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. 

He hung up. The ugly thing in his chest writhed. 

And then, barely a second later — his phone rang.

Chapter Text

Bucky answered the phone immediately, feeling sick to his stomach with relief.

“Sam?” His voice was strangled, choked. 

“Bucky?” Sam didn’t sound tired, just surprised. Like Bucky and Yelena, he too must have been lying restless in their bed (which side was he on, Bucky still wondered?), studying each and every blemish in the ceiling. The thought just made Bucky feel worse, but at least Sam had been awake to call him back; he was sure that, if he had waited until morning, his resolve that he had built up from helping Bob and walking back through his own memories would have crumbled. Though by then, Sam might have built up one of his own; he certainly sounded just as relieved as Bucky felt, despite the worry edging his tone, as he prompted him, “What’s wrong?” 

Why are you calling? I thought you didn’t want to talk to me. Bucky could practically hear the words, ringing loud in his ears even though Sam hadn’t tacked them on. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw tight, feeling too much all at once. He leaned his head back against the bed’s headboard with a thunk. 

Every basic instinct of his learned self-preservation was screaming at him to hang up again. But he didn’t. 

“Buck?” Sam’s voice had gone softer, more concerned, and Bucky blinked, not knowing how long he’d been sitting there in silence, breathing into his phone as his hand gripping it shook. 

“I’m here,” he managed, dragging the words up from his chest, forcing them from his throat. “I just — I need to, to tell you —,” Bucky cursed himself internally, digging his free hand into his hair angrily before dragging his palm down his face, gritting his teeth. Why was this so damn hard? 

“I — I can’t, fuck, I —,”

“Take your time.” Damn him, damn Sam, Sam who should be angry but Sam who was not, who was being nothing but gentle with him right now even though he should be angry — at least when they had fought, Bucky had felt some semblance of balance, that he was lying and Sam was angry, but now — “Take your time, baby.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. Painfully. 

Damn you, he thought — to Sam, to himself, to everything. Damn you.

(That was why this was so damn hard, he knew. It was hard because he had been prepared to lie to the public, to his team, to everyone but Sam, because Sam was different. Because Sam was different in the sense that he knew Bucky, he understood Bucky, and everyone said that they did but Sam actually did — Sam understood him, and he welcomed him in anyway, shared a home with him, a bed with him, called him baby and, and, and — 

Sam was different. That was why this was so damn hard — but also why it was so damn important.

Bucky had to do this, because he wanted it all. Wanted the shared home, the shared bed, the shared . . . everything else. Wanted Sam. He didn’t want all he had left of him to be memories dug up after a long, hard night, all because he had been too scared of losing everything else to realize he was losing everything.)

Bucky hunched over himself in the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and switching his phone to his left hand so he could wrap his right around himself — flesh was more comforting than vibranium, even if any comfort was a small one, right now. 

He drew in a deep inhale. He grounded himself, listening to Sam breathing over the phone, listening to the quiet, near-indistinguishable murmur of Yelena and Bob’s voices from the room next to his own; feeling the wood of the headboard behind him, and the softness of the mattress underneath him.

And then he breathed out through his nose and spoke, forcing the words out the moment he found himself able to unstick them from the back of his throat.

He was done lying. Everything meant nothing, if he couldn’t have Sam by his side.

“We aren’t — we aren’t working for Valentina, Sam,” he said, with every ounce of finality he could muster.

For all of Sam’s composure — for all of his certainty, for all of his gentleness — when he spoke, his voice was flooded with shock, though beneath it was a note of realization, as if something he’d already suspected was falling into place.

“What?”

“We didn’t even know she was going to do that — get on TV and call us a team for the whole world to see, call us the damn New Avengers as if any of us are anything close to heroes.” The words spilled from Bucky like water from a broken dam the moment he began to speak, rambling and desperate. “But she did, and — and it was a chance. A chance to be good, to do good, to help people. But to do that — to be able to help, to be allowed to help — we need credibility. Jurisdiction. Bullshit. And she gives us that bullshit.

“But, Sam, we’re the ones pulling the strings. She’s — she doesn’t call the shots, she just gives us the opportunity to shoot. And the rest of them were fine with that, but I — it’s like you said, I was the damn head of that impeachment trial, I know more than anyone what a monster she is, and what that would do to everything the Avengers are, to be represented by someone like that.

“So I talked to Yelena.” Bucky drew in a long breath, keeping his eyes squeezed shut tight. On the other end of the line, Sam was silent. “We’ve been working on building a case. To bring her down. And once we have two feet to stand on, we’re sliding the rug out from under hers. We aren’t working for her. We never have been, even if she represents us, but — we’re taking her down.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Only me, Yelena, and Ava know. And Valentina’s assistant, Mel, she gives us intel. I wasn’t — I wasn’t supposed to tell you, Sam. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but I — I just —,”

Bucky paused. He opened his eyes. Leaned his head forward, then all the way back again, leaning against the headboard with a heavy thunk, staring up at the ceiling.

“I just . . . I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to fuck things up, but I always wanted to tell you, especially when we fought. And now, I just — I don’t give a damn, alright?” He clenched his jaw tightly, speaking through gritted teeth. “It’s too fucking hard, and I’m so damn tired of fighting with you.” I’m tired of it, and I miss you, and I’m done fighting.

(He thought back to after that battle in New York City, fighting through the Void — how his first thought, when the shadows had cleared and he had stumbled from them, had been I want to go home. And how that same thought was ringing through his mind now, because it was, really, all he wanted.)

“Jesus, Buck.” Sam’s voice was thick with mixed emotions — disbelief, frustration, and utter, tangible relief that seemed to nearly make him laugh; he sounded a little breathless as he spoke. “Since when have you listened to people when they tell you not to do something, huh? You should’ve told me.” Then, in a quieter mutter: “Dammit, I knew something was wrong.”

“I didn’t want to screw anything else up.” Bucky’s voice was bitter. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Vulnerability had never been his strong suit, but right now, he owed it to Sam to try. Before he could speak again, though, Sam did, sounding almost angry with himself.

“I — God, I could tell something was up, the way you were acting, and I just — I just don’t understand . . .” 

Sam went quiet for a long moment. Then:

“I just don’t understand why you thought you had to do it all alone.” 

Bucky stayed silent, staring at the ceiling and listening as Sam continued. 

“I mean — you trusted Yelena, Ava, even that other girl — Mel.” Sam’s voice was tight. “But not me, huh.”

“It wasn’t about trust,” Bucky muttered. Sam sighed. His frustration seemed to have ebbed; he just sounded confused, and painfully hurt. 

“Then what the hell was it about?”

“I just — I didn’t want to drag you into it, okay?” Bucky ran his hand back down his face, rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows. “You’re Captain America, Sam. You, the Avengers — you stand for something, alright? And one of those things is already compromised because of this whole damn mess. I didn’t want you to be, too. I didn’t want you to — to be like me, right now.” 

(A liar, his mind unhelpfully reminded him. A liar actively covering up illegal human experimentation and a list of other crimes long enough to wrap around the world, because even if you are trying to take her down, right now? You’re all but protecting her, and damning yourself. It needs to end. 

And it would. He would end it. Right now, though, Sam was his priority.)

Over the line, Sam just huffed at his words, sounding almost affronted. “You think I haven’t had to make compromises?” He challenged, speaking not meanly, but firmly. “You think I haven't been forced to play politics — to smile and shake the hands of the people holding the power even when I wanted to punch their faces in? You know I have, Buck. You know I understand that.” 

His voice had gone low, almost soft. Bucky exhaled, shuddering and heavy, making the ugly, aching thing in his chest dig into him, gripping him like a vice, twisting into his heart. 

He remembered what he had said to Bob, about that darkness within — that it didn’t go away. And it didn’t, Bucky knew that. But right now, it hurt, it hurt so damn bad, because —

“You would’ve told me,” he said, quiet and small. It wasn’t a question. “If it were you. You would’ve told me.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, and they both knew it was true. “I would’ve.”

“I just — I just wanted to protect you.” Bucky felt far away from his own voice, his mind just as distant. 

(You’re important to me, he thought but did not say, because that was too much right now. You’re the most important person in my life, and I can’t lose you, and after everything you went through to pick up that shield, I thought you’d hate me if I fucked up and you had to put it back down again — if I fucked up and destroyed the name of everything you stand for.

I can’t lose you, Sam. The person, the one person, who, for the first time since goddamn 1943, made me feel like I could look someone in the eye and tell them I love them.

Because Sam was different. Because Sam was everything.)

“I thought I was protecting you.” Bucky’s voice hitched, just slightly, but just enough to convey every single one of his jumbled, messy thoughts. He tried to ball up his emotions, squash them deep, but it was all too much, and he felt every ounce of it. Feeling — it was hard, it ached, and it almost made him yearn for the cryostasis to wipe it all away, but not quite. “It’s all I wanted.”

“I know,” Sam murmured. “I can see that, now.” There was a pause, and then Bucky thought he heard Sam laugh, just a little. He blinked, and then he felt present in himself again, listening to Sam laugh, the ache in his chest for an entirely different reason, now.

“You idiot,” Sam continued, when he finally spoke. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, too, you know that? To get you to see reason. I had no idea why in the hell you kept insisting that Valentina was helping you, and then I was just plain confused.” He laughed again. Bucky clung to the sound with everything he had. “You really had me goin’, Buck. I’m surprised — you’re usually a terrible liar.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky grinned up at the ceiling, drawing in a deep breath. “Politics taught me a thing or two, I guess.”

That got Sam to really laugh, and Bucky’s tentative grin became a genuine smile. He closed his eyes and breathed as they fell into silence — silence that was comfortable for the first time in a while, without the tension of an impending argument or fight — until Sam spoke again, that low, soft tone back again.

“Why’d you call me, Buck?” If he had been sitting there beside him, Bucky was sure Sam would’ve had that sad, pensive look in his deep brown eyes, the silent question in his gaze asking him for honesty. “To tell me all of this, I know, and I’m damn glad. God knows I’m tired of fighting with you. Just — why now?” And then he did add on, “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me. I mean, God — you went to New York, ‘cause you didn’t want to.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a long moment. He opened his eyes to stare back up at the ceiling, listening to Sam’s steady, even breathing over the line. Just as Bucky had done with Bob, Sam was waiting for him to speak, giving him all the time he needed.

“I didn’t come here to get away from you,” Bucky managed eventually, speaking slowly and quietly. “I came here because I — I couldn’t stay there and keep lying to you, Sam.” 

“But you’re not lying now.”

“No.” Bucky sighed, wincing as he heard the silent question from the other end of the line: why not?

“I remembered something,” he continued, breath shuddering a little. “You, actually. After New York City, after all of — all of that.” Bucky drew in a deep inhale, steadying his breath. “When I called you, and you picked up. When — when I told you I was coming home, and you just . . . opened the door. Let me in.” In his mind’s eye, he saw Sam in front of him — his gentle gaze, so clouded with worry, as he had pulled him into his arms, as he had brought him inside, taken care of him, told him he was safe, because he was home. 

“You always let me in, Sammy.” That time, when Bucky’s voice broke, he let it. “Figured it was time for me to return the favor, for once.”

Sam hummed in understanding, because of course he did. When he spoke, his voice was light and teasing, but with a choked edge.

“You make it really goddamn hard to stay mad at you. You know that, Barnes?”

Bucky laughed, then, the expression feeling strange as it stretched another smile across his face. “I’ve been told.”

They settled back into that familiar, comfortable silence that had been less than familiar, recently. Bucky thought of those silent nights in their shared apartment — those nights when Sam had come home from a mission a little later than Bucky had, and Bucky was already lying in bed, pretending to be asleep just so he wouldn’t have to talk to him, because they could barely talk without arguing about something or other. Usually Valentina. 

Sam would always let out a sad sigh before settling down on his side of their bed, and then they would both lie there awake for a long time, saying nothing. Even on the nights where they fought but made up afterward (because Bucky always came back), there was that silent tension, despite exchanged apologies (and sometimes more). 

Sometimes, when it was Bucky who came back late, whether it was from a mission or from going out to wander after a fight, he would sleep on the couch. He remembered how he would wake up in the morning with his shoulder aching and Sam already gone — though Sam would always leave out the pot of coffee he’d made before leaving, and an apple or breakfast bar reminding Bucky to eat something, because Sam was just that good that, even in their arguments, he made sure Bucky was taking care of himself.

The ache in Bucky’s chest had loosened some as they had talked over the phone, but at that thought, it squeezed at his heart again, made his breath hitch. And when Sam finally broke the silence, it twisted into him until he could barely breathe at all.

“Come home?”

Sam’s voice was soft, the question almost pleading. Bucky had to swallow tightly before responding, words stuck painfully in his throat.

“Soon,” he promised, a small tremble in his voice. “I’m — I’m gonna talk to ‘em. To Yelena and Ava. We have enough.” Bucky’s tone strengthened; this, at least, he was sure of. “We just need to bring it all together — against Valentina. And we will. This’ll be over and done with soon, Sam, I promise. But . . . well, someone’s gotta help with that. Make sure it doesn’t all go to shit immediately.”

“And that someone’s gotta be you, huh?” They both knew the answer to that. Sam sighed, but when he spoke again, his voice was firm. “If you need anything,” he told him, “I can help you, Buck. You just gotta talk to me. Let me have your back. You know I will.”

Bucky made a quiet sound of agreement. “I know,” he said, and he did. He did know. He just . . . hadn’t wanted to, because that meant pulling Sam into his bullshit. Even though he knew Sam wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for him — and that he’d be pissed if Sam didn’t. 

We’re supposed to have each other’s backs, Sam had said, in their fight that had led to all of this. He had been right. And Bucky knew that. Knew Sam would’ve leaned on him, just as Bucky should’ve been. Just as he was doing now.

He had just needed that reminder. And helping Bob had given that to him.

“Thank you for calling,” Sam said, gentle as anything. Bucky’s eyes burned, and he wiped the tears from them. He had come a long, long way from being the blank, emotionless Winter Soldier. And, fuck, he wouldn’t have it any other way, because as hard as it was to feel, it was damn worth it, for moments like these. He smiled — small, tentative, but there, even in the dark of the room.

“Thanks for picking up.”

“‘Course. Always,” Sam replied easily, and then, softer — “You should try and get some sleep, baby.” The ache in Bucky’s chest twisted, curling around his heart as Sam spoke, the utter care in his voice another thing that was so painfully familiar, and yet hadn’t been familiar. “You sound tired.”

“Could be telling you the same thing,” Bucky managed to quip. It was true, anyway; Sam had sounded wide-awake when they’d started talking (mostly from the relief mingled with worry), but his voice was more worn, now, the time of night catching up with him, seeing as he, unlike Bucky, actually had a normal sleep schedule most of the time. Sam chuckled.

“Fine. We should try to get some sleep, how’s that.”

“Hm. Maybe,” Bucky conceded. 

There was a moment of silence — familiar, comfortable — and then Bucky couldn’t help but ask, because he ached. 

“Sam.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Whose . . .” He had to bite back the smile in his voice, because part of him already knew the answer. “Whose side of the bed are you on?”

And for all of his futile efforts, he knew that Sam had heard his smile, just as Bucky heard his when he replied, “Yours.” 

Chapter Text

They both hung up soon after, Bucky promising to text Sam in the morning — or rather, later in it, seeing as it was already nearing 5:00 a.m. when their call ended. Sam had been falling asleep on the other end of the line; “At least it’s Friday,” he had said, “no bullshit on the weekends. I’m sleeping in. If the world starts ending, it’ll just have to wait for me to get up.” 

Bucky had been tired, too, but after everything, he was too worked-up to drift off. He didn’t manage to fall asleep even lying back in bed, listening to the whir of the air conditioning and staring up at the ceiling with the ache in his chest loosened enough for him to breathe easy. 

And he did breathe easy — feeling, for the first time in weeks, that things really were going to be okay.

Bucky wound up wandering back out of Steve’s old room just past six in the morning, when it was clear that sleep was not coming to him after all, despite his newfound calm. He hesitated outside of Bob’s room for a brief moment before quietly pushing the door open, checking to ensure that all was well. 

It was; the man was sprawled out across his bed like a starfish, hair wayward as he snored lightly, looking far more at peace than he had a few hours ago, which made Bucky’s mouth turn upward in a soft, gentle sort of relief, because against his better judgment (he generally opposed feeling anything towards anyone, because things inevitably went to shit, like with Sam — though, Bucky supposed, it seemed like that was working out for the better, now), he cared about him, and was glad he was alright. 

After lingering there for a moment, Bucky closed the door softly, letting out a quiet sigh. He slipped down the hallway and out into the common room, where he found Yelena in the same place she had been last night when he had first arrived.

(Last night — God, it had barely been twelve hours since his and Sam’s fight, since he had found himself exhausted and weighed-down and feeling like the worst person in the goddamn world as he made his way up the Watchtower. Between the train ride he’d disassociated for, his two phone calls to Sam, and his walk through his memories with Bob, it felt like it had been damn years.)

Bucky sighed again, louder that time, even though he knew Yelena already knew he was standing behind her. “Good morning,” he said to her, because for all of his own internal crises, his ma had raised him with some manners. 

“You told Sam Wilson,” Yelena responded, both without preamble and without looking at him, because apparently, hers hadn’t. She kept her gaze fixed on the TV, which was playing some old rerun of a reality show on low volume, and fiddled with the drink in her hands as Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and drew in a long, steadying breath.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

Yelena hummed thoughtfully, drumming her nails along her pajama-clad thigh. “To be honest, I am surprised it took you so long,” she drawled out, with a pointed glance and an arched brow cast in his direction. She seemed to consider him for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed.

“You care about him.” Yelena said it as a statement, not as a question, but Bucky answered her anyway.

“I — yeah.” His voice had softened. He ached from the inside out. “Yeah, I do.”

He sat down in the armchair next to the couch, and Yelena passed him the bottle of vodka she was drinking. Bucky contemplated the fact that the sun hadn’t even risen, then countered it with the fact that he couldn’t get drunk, and she clearly had the tolerance of a goddamn horse. He took a long drink before handing it back, the strength of it burning his throat.

“How’s Bob? He alright?” Bucky asked, both because he cared about him and because he sort of owed Bob for helping him find the resolve to call Sam, anyway; he didn’t know how damn long it would’ve dragged out if not for that silver lining of Bob’s episode.

“He is fine.” Yelena sighed. “He gets his nightmares, all of the time, and he does not want to talk about them. I try and help, but . . .” She shrugged, rubbing at her face with a tired hand before tilting her head and regarding him with her sharp, dark-eyed gaze. 

“I do not know what you did, but . . . you did help him,” she said, not even sounding begrudging about it. “I am grateful.”

“I was just — just honest with him,” Bucky muttered, gaze lowered as he crossed his arms back over his chest with a tight sigh. “And, actually, he — he helped me, too. In a way.” 

Yelena angled her body to face him, looking curious. That, Bucky thought, was a nice change of pace — usually, he couldn't tell what the hell she was thinking or feeling. It was disconcerting. But, then again, he also thought that that was probably how people both viewed and thought about him, too, so. 

“That is why you chose to tell Wilson?” Yelena asked, because she was goddamn perceptive. Bucky shrugged, frowning slightly.

“I already — I’ve been wanting to,” he admitted, before dragging his gaze up to meet hers, nearly wincing at the intensity there. He left his explanation at that, because she did not need to know about their fights, or the fight, or the phone call, or the bed. Instead, he turned it towards Valentina. 

“We have enough, Yelena. We can move against her, now. If not for me and Sam’s — situation —,”

“You can say relationship, you know,” Yelena drawled, smirk widening, “we are all very aware — except maybe Walker, he is not very observant —,”

“— our situation,” Bucky interrupted, ignoring both her words and the way he could feel his face heating up, “if not for us, then for Bob. I mean — fuck, Yelena.” The humor in her quip died immediately, both of them going somber-faced. 

“He was already hurting — what we saw in his memories, in the Void, and everything in the Sentry Project files, his drug abuse and family history and mental problems, and — and she took that, and twisted it. And he’s still hurting, because of her.” Bucky shook his head, running his flesh hand through his hair, and this time, it was his gaze that was painfully intense as he stared Yelena down. “We can’t keep covering that up. We can’t keep protecting her, even if it’s for our own sakes.” 

“I know,” Yelena said, quiet. “I know.” She sighed, turning the vodka bottle over in her hands, squeezing it methodically. 

“So.” Her voice was unreadable, her expression steeled. “You are saying it is time to come forward.”

“I think so,” Bucky told her. “We have enough. The Sentry Project files, Mel’s testimony, Ava’s recon. Murdock says it’s solid — enough to open a case without it blowing back on all of us — and I’m back on good enough terms with Congressman Gary and the others for them to have my back on this.” He almost smirked as he added, “It helps that they all hate her, too.” 

“And Valentina, herself?” Yelena’s voice was several shades colder, now, and her expression had turned ugly as she took another long drink. “She will not go quietly. You know this. She will try to drag us down with her.”

“She won’t go quietly,” Bucky agreed, thinking wearily back to the months-long fight for impeachment that had fallen through, because she was just that good at manipulating the masses. “But I’m not asking her too. We let her think we’re still playing her game, and then we turn the board, like we agreed.”

Yelena gave a sharp little nod, as if she approved of the plan more because it involved deception than anything else. “And what about the team?” She asked, sounding almost like she was testing him — seeing if he truly had worked out all the kinks. 

At that question, Bucky grimaced, mainly because he was already dead tired just thinking about telling Alexei and Walker about all of this. But when he spoke, his voice was still sure.

“They need to know, too. We let Ava know what we’re doing first, that we’re making the move, and then talk to the rest of them, today.” He fixed her with a look. “But we have to be careful. No grand speeches. Just facts, next steps. We’re building something better than what she shoved us all into, and that won’t work if we don’t trust each other.” 

Yelena raised a brow at him. “You sound like a leader, you know that?” There was no teasing in her voice. Bucky scoffed, shaking his head and dropping his gaze. 

“I’m no leader,” he said, “any more than I’m a hero. I’m just tired of power being in the hands of the wrong people. That’s something that hasn’t changed, in all the decades I’ve lived through. And bringing down just one . . . it’s something. And besides.” Bucky shrugged, somewhat self-conscious as a small smile pulled at his lips. “I wanna be done with this shit. I . . . I told Sam I’d come back home, and I can’t do that until I know things aren’t gonna go to hell without me here.”

Yelena looked at him with a thoughtful expression, tilting her head a little to one side. “Maybe,” she said, considering, “maybe, once this is all through and done with, you bring him in. Onto the team.”

“Maybe,” Bucky echoed, voice doubtful — this team wasn’t exactly one he pictured Sam wanting to be a part of. But even as he doubted, her words made something within him click. He mulled it over for a moment, and felt that ache in his chest again as he realized how much he really did want that. He wanted to fight alongside Sam, protecting and saving people, like when they had teamed up against the Flag Smashers, or even back in Wakanda. 

Bucky fought because he cared, and so did Sam. They worked, in more ways than one. Bucky wanted that again. And if all of this did work out, without the Avengers name losing all credibility and not just some, without Valentina somehow managing to drag them all into federal prison with her — well, maybe he would try pursuing that.

“I think — I think I will, actually,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “But not like Valentina did — not under false pretenses, or manipulation. If he joins us, it’s on his terms, or not at all.” 

There was a good chance Sam would say no — Bucky couldn’t see him and Walker working together well at all — but at the same time, there was still a chance that he would say yes. All he could do was ask.

“Fair,” Yelena conceded. She leaned back, watching him closely, passing the bottle in her hands from one palm to the other. After a long moment, she sighed. “I am sorry that you were dragged into all of this, Bucky,” she said. “I know what it is like to not want to fight. I know it was not the life you wanted, not anymore.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to fight.” Bucky shifted a little in the armchair, uncomfortable. He clenched and unclenched his metal fist, the vibranium plates whirring quietly. “I was tired of fighting under other people. The War, then Hydra. This — when we fight — it’s for other people. That’s why I’m fighting for this team, Yelena. Not just on missions, but internally, against Val. I’m choosing to fight.”

Yelena went quiet for a long moment, the room between them silent save for the near-muted TV and the soft whirring of Bucky’s arm. When she finally spoke, it was so quiet, he had to nearly strain to listen.

“I have done . . . very bad things,” she said. “I did bad things, for a long time.” Yelena’s gaze had gone distant; there was a strange serenity over her face, as if she had made peace with the fact, but the look in her eye suggested otherwise, even as she smiled and spoke softly. “This — this team, this has been — a chance.”

“A chance to be good.” Bucky echoed her own words that had stuck with him for months, and she looked back up at him, her smile twisted and slightly sardonic.

“It is unfortunate,” she murmured, “that it was Valentina who gave it to me.”

“No.” Bucky shook his head, suddenly angry, that that was how she saw it — because that was how he had seen it, too, and that guilt had twisted into every part of him, ringing most loudly with Steve’s aged voice voicing his pride in him. “You chose to fight this fight as much as I did. She may have been the reason behind why there was a fight to begin with, but that doesn’t negate us — you — choosing to step in, and to keep stepping in. To do good, to help people, despite what your past looks like. And you know what?” 

He hesitated, nearly stopped speaking, but dammit — he had needed to hear this, and so did she, because hearing it had been part of the whole reason why he’d stepped back in to fight against Valentina in the first place. Even if, for him, it was more to prove his own worth, but regardless. They all needed to hear this, from the people who it meant the most from. This whole team of people who had done bad, and were just trying to do more good, not just to make up for it, but to help people, because they cared.

“You know what I think?”

Yelena’s expression was impassive, her voice flat as she spoke. “What.”

“I think,” Bucky said quietly, and he hesitated again, because this was out of line, really goddamn out of line, and if someone had said this to him in Steve’s place he probably would have have hit them (except for Sam), but she needed to hear this, and so — “I think your sister would have been proud of you for that.”

Yelena stared at him, her lips pursed so tightly, her mouth was but a thin line. Her eyes were shining in the half dark, a sheen of tears teetering on the waterline. She looked away, face cast in shadow. She did not hit him, which he thought was a good thing, but as she spoke, he almost thought physical violence would have been better than this.

“She would be disappointed.” Yelena’s voice was bitter, strongly accented as grief throbbed in her words. “Disappointed, to know who we operate under. This team — we have done good, but at the end of the day?” She shook her head, clicking her tongue disapprovingly to hide the tremor in her words. “We have been no better than the Red Room.”

Bucky nearly flinched at her words, thinking of Sam’s regretful snap in their argument, of Valentina being another greater evil. But he didn’t; just steeled himself and spoke. 

“That’s why we’re taking her down.” His voice was firm and final. “To be better. To do better. To do good.” 

Yelena fell silent, save for her shuddering breaths, uneven and slow. She capped the bottle of vodka in her hands and set it on the floor, leaning back against the back of the couch. Bucky kept his gaze fixed on her until she lifted her head and looked back up at him. When she spoke again, it was low, questioning, but with an edge of resolve.

“You are sure about all of this?” She asked him.

“I am,” Bucky said, and it was the most honest truth he had spoken in months. “But even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter, because we need to be done pretending we’re on moral high ground when the rug could be pulled out from under us at any second. These people we’re helping deserve honesty. Everyone deserves honesty. And it’s time we give it to them.”

Yelena smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but that was real, nonetheless. Bucky didn’t know what was running through her mind — thoughts of her sister, he surmised from the emotion in her gaze, or maybe of Alexei, or even of Bob, asleep down the hallway. People she didn’t want to let down, just like how Bucky felt with Steve, with Sam.

People who they didn't want to let down. People who they wanted to make proud.

By — well. Yelena put it best, as she spoke again.

“Then let’s burn that сука.”

Bucky chuckled, very nearly smiling. He rubbed a hand down his face and leaned back in the armchair, closing his eyes. He was tired, aching down to his bones, but he was damn happy, because things were finally, finally going to be okay. 

“Yeah,” he said, a half-grin on his face. “Let’s.”

And then — and then — he would go home. 

Home — where Sam was waiting for him. 

Chapter Text

It would still be several days before Bucky was able to return home.

Unsurprisingly, it was John who caused the most problems deterring him from leaving, after Bucky, Yelena, and Ava had told their plans to him and Alexei (and Bob, who had sat on the couch with his headphones on reading a book, because though talking about Valentina made him uncomfortable even if he didn’t understand why, he still wanted to be near them all). 

John had bitched and moaned about every goddamn thing — mainly because, he had explained to them (as if they were the ones being unreasonable), this was their clean slate, their opportunity, and they would waste it by getting rid of Valentina’s influence. They would be right back to square one, he had said — sounding angry, mostly, but also a little bit scared, in a way that Bucky could, at least, understand.

But, once Yelena (who had gained a lot of confidence in their plans after her and Bucky’s conversation, and after they had gone over everything with Ava, because they really did have enough) had explained it all to him — slower and with far more patience than Bucky thought he’d had in his entire life, even when he had had to deal with Steve’s stubborn, self-righteous younger self — John had simmered down, for the most part. 

Alexei had had to listen to his daughter, too, because he admired Valentina’s ruthlessness and thought she was good for the team — but once Yelena had gone over the Sentry Project files with the both of them, it didn’t take much more convincing for them all to move forward. Especially with Bob sitting right there, reminding them all why they had to do this through living proof of Valentina’s cruelty, so far from what the Avengers should be fighting for.

Over the course of four days, they had met with their lawyer several times, finally giving him the fully-uncensored versions of everything they had, all of the Sentry Project files and everything else they already had on Valentina. Bucky had also met with members of Congress — which had led to a lot more bitching and moaning, actually, because apparently, Congressman Barnes had been well-liked, and people missed him, or something like that. 

Ultimately, they were moving towards a public statement against Valentina, and then her arrest — which was fully launched into play on an anticlimactic Tuesday afternoon, when Mel had assured them that Valentina’s guard was fully down, and that now was the time to strike.

Once Bucky had tied up all of the loose ends on his side to make sure things played out how they were supposed to — including having a couple more talks with Yelena, who was definitely taking on the leadership role in this whole thing despite him having been the one to initiate it all, which he was damn grateful for — he packed up his few things, said goodbye to the team, accepted a quick hug from Bob (who had thanked him, earnestly and several times over, for helping him, to which Bucky wished there was a way to convey just how deeply he felt that same gratitude), and walked down to the train station to buy another one-way ticket.

Despite the one-way of it all, he wasn’t leaving the rest of the New Avengers to fend for themselves, or anything like that. He knew that they were at least competent enough to not fuck this up too badly, especially with Yelena, and with Murdock’s help — he was, actually, a really good lawyer. 

But besides that, Bucky himself had agreed to come back every few days for the next few weeks, while they were getting everything sorted. And afterwards, given that everything worked out, who knew where his place in the team would end up being? 

He knew he didn’t want to live in the Tower full-time, unlike the rest of them — even if he had doubted it when he had bought that first ticket, he did, actually, have a home to go back to — but he did want to make a better schedule. The others were doing too much for him to not put in his own effort.

None of that mattered to him right now, though. Not even the fact that #ValentinaAllegraDeFontaineArrest was trending, along with #SentryProject, something he should probably look into making a Twitter statement about, but didn’t, because what mattered to him now was getting home. 

Even if he had to deal with the couple of reporters who had tried to corner him on his walk down to the train station, and the young journalist who had sat next to him on the train, who had only asked him a couple of questions before giving up, because he had really perfected that Winter Soldier glare over the years.

After that quick intimidation, Bucky spent most of the train ride back just staring out the window, feeling distant from his own mind until the announcement came that they were reaching their stop. Maybe, he considered, with some amusement and with a flex of his vibranium hand, he disassociated by nature on trains. 

He thought, with more amusement, that that was the sort of joke his old therapist would’ve sighed at and written down in her notebook.

The walk from the train station to his and Sam’s apartment felt just as distant as the train ride itself. The sky had darkened, but the streets were still busy enough that Bucky could blend into the masses, keeping to himself and keeping his head down, because the only person he wanted to talk to about everything going on was Sam.

Unfortunately, Sam was still at some meeting or other when Bucky finally got back. As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he found the apartment dark, empty, and quiet, and it made guilt churn in his stomach — that he had left Sam like this, alone, for days. 

And yes, they had certainly made up, and had called every night since while Bucky stayed in the Tower — but when they had fallen asleep, it had still been in separate beds. And whereas Bucky had had people, if he needed them (or if they needed him), Sam had been alone. 

Bucky left his bag by the door and immediately went to take a shower, because in between everything he had been doing, he hadn’t had the damn time. He took his sweet time now, letting the space steam up with heat, tipping his head back and closing his eyes and letting the spray hit his face until the feelings in his chest washed away for the moment. 

It reminded him faintly of cryo, but with burning heat instead of cold, the shock of the temperature driving away the ghosts haunting him for the blissful moment he was in it. But just for the moment.

After reluctantly stepping back out of the shower, he pulled on fresh clothes, a shirt and sweatpants that actually belonged to him (he had been borrowing from Bob’s extensive closet of graphic tees that Yelena had bought him; they had been too small, and covered with pop references that he didn’t understand, but Bucky refused to borrow from John, and didn’t even want to consider putting on anything Alexei had worn) and went to lay down, because it was late — almost 10:00 — and he ached all over. 

The ache hadn’t left him alone, the past four days. Really, though, he thought that it had been there since his and Sam’s first fight, a couple mornings after the New York City battle — that ugly, twisting thing in his chest that squeezed him tighter with each hurtful blow passed between the two of them, that had made a home inside him, burrowing deep within and clinging to him with cruelty. 

Bucky sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling heavy and weighed-down. He slowly reached his flesh hand up to the vibranium arm on his left side. 

He hadn’t taken it off, in the several days at the Watchtower; it didn’t feel safe, not like it felt here, where he lounged around and slept without it, safe with Sam. But because of that, his body had gotten used to those nightly breaks from lugging around a whole-ass metal limb, only contributing to that ache weighing down on him nearly enough to make him stumble.

He detached his arm carefully from the whirring vibranium port and lay it gently on the bedside table, rolling out his throbbing shoulder with a wince. After taking a moment to breathe, he lay back, sinking into the too-soft mattress — into the bed that felt too empty, with him there on his own. 

Steve’s old bed had felt empty, too, but not like this, because this was their bed. His and Sam’s. Theirs. 

More than anything, he had missed Sam, while he was sorting out shit in New York. 

He had missed falling asleep beside him — waking up in the morning with their legs tangled together as Sam’s annoying morning alarm (set to the tune of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Wham!, because of course it was) made Sam rocket awake with his irritating morning-person cheer and made Bucky groan, wishing he slept with his arm on so he could snap the damn phone in two. 

He had missed their mornings together, painfully domestic as they went for runs and bantered back and forth and stopped to get coffee at the cafe down the street that they both liked. He had missed their shared nights, just as domestic, as Sam got Bucky caught up on the best movies he had missed (their most recent watch had been Good Will Hunting) and they ate Chinese takeout, and then fell asleep together all over again. He had even missed the days when one of them was called out for a mission, because the goodbyes they shared were certainly worth the strain of dealing with politics or the megalomaniac of the week.

Mostly, though? He had just missed — he did miss — Sam. Just Sam.

Sam’s laugh, Sam’s smile. Sam’s damn soft eyes, and the look in them while he gazed at Bucky. 

Just — Sam. 

He always missed Sam, when they weren’t together. That was the worst damn part about caring about people, Bucky thought. Missing them.

This time had been worse, though. Missing Sam, when he had been holed up in the Watchtower poring over files and notes and potential testimonies, had been that same ache, weighing down on him — because he wasn’t away from Sam for a mission or a meeting, he was away from Sam by choice. 

He had left Sam, alone, by choice, and that thought alone made him ache so badly he felt like couldn’t breathe.

Sam wasn’t angry with him. Bucky knew that. Sam was relieved and happy that Bucky had been honest with him, and he understood Bucky’s need to stay at the Tower for a little while longer, to get everything sorted out. Sam even understood why Bucky had left him alone in the first place — Sam understood the panic, the disassociation, the ache, the everything. Sam understood when things were too much.

But it still hurt, because no matter the why, he had still done it. 

He almost wished Sam would be angry. It would be simpler. 

Bucky lay in their bed flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a burn in his eyes. He didn’t know how much time had passed as he lay thinking about everything, but he thought that it was only a little while later that he heard the soft, telltale click of the front door unlocking, and then Sam’s footsteps as he walked inside. Bucky closed his eyes, listening; he had told Sam he’d be back late, but not exactly when, and he heard him hesitate, likely at the sight of the bag on the floor.

“Bucky?”

When Sam spoke, his voice was so soft, and Bucky ached. 

“In here,” he called out in response, and it was a damn miracle that his own voice didn’t shake.

He listened as Sam took off his shoes and jacket in the hall before walking into their bedroom, and then he felt the bed dip under Sam’s weight. They stayed in silence for a moment, before Sam let out a long exhale and spoke, his voice still so damn gentle, so damn soft.

“Your shoulder okay, Buck?” Sam asked.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut tighter as if it would do anything against the burn in them, the tears building up from such a simple question. Because it wasn’t simple, not really; because it was only Sam who knew that he only took off the arm to sleep or when his shoulder was hurting badly, because it was only Sam who saw it as more of a weapon of destruction. Who saw him as more than that. 

(Who trusted him, even when Bucky hadn’t done the same.)

“Just aches,” he managed to get out. “Didn’t take it off at all, when I was up there. You know how it gets.”

“Do you need anything?” Sam asked, and Bucky’s chest twisted as he thought, just you. 

“That’s okay, Sammy,” he said aloud, softly. “I’m alright. Just . . .” Bucky’s voice very nearly caught. “Just glad to be home.”

Sam shifted slightly, the bedsprings squeaking underneath him. He had sat down on the right side, Bucky registered with a sudden pang — to make him feel more comfortable, with his left side incapacitated at the moment. 

(Damn you, he found himself thinking, just like that night of their phone call, his eyes burning again, because Sam was so good, in a way that Bucky could only dream of ever being. Damn you.)

“When did you get back?” Sam asked after a long moment. Bucky blinked, opening his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. He still didn’t look over at Sam, because he thought if he met his gaze right now, he would fall to pieces.

“‘Bout an hour ago, I think.”

“I would’ve been here earlier, but my meeting went late,” Sam explained, first apologetic and then probing, as he continued: “Had to stay to go over some new developments . . . something about the New Avengers bringing up charges against Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Not that you’d know anything about that, huh?”

Bucky steeled his expression into one of neutrality, even as his lips twitched upward. It was a relief — to have Sam teasing him again, like nothing had changed at all. He hummed, as though in deep thought. “It’s not ringing any bells.”

“Don’t sound so smug.” Sam huffed, but there was a smile in his voice. He shifted again, a little closer to Bucky, who could practically feel his gaze on him as he spoke again — softer, but more serious. “You think it’ll work out, Buck?”

“It will,” Bucky told him. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling despite his certainty, only watching Sam in his peripheral vision to soothe the throbbing, pounding ache in his very soul. “She’s backed into a corner. She might try to bite, but — well.” His left shoulder twitched, vibranium port whirring in an approximation of a shrug. “She doesn’t have any more secret world-ending people locked in boxes, so.”

Sam made a noise of consideration. “Well, as far as you know,” he countered, teasing. Bucky groaned.

“Fuck, don’t say that.”

Sam laughed, genuine and light, and the ache in Bucky’s chest loosened, some. It tightened again when, a moment later, he felt Sam’s hand find his own and squeeze, gentle. Another moment, and then he heard his voice, just as gentle.

“I missed you, Buck.”

Bucky drew in a deep, painful breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he held it before shuddering out the exhale. He eased himself up in bed and lifted his head to look at Sam, nearly flinching at the soft look in his deep brown eyes, at the open earnestness in his expression. 

There was no anger there, but Bucky felt it, anyway, from himself and towards himself.

“Yeah,” he said — because saying I missed you, too, God, I missed you so fucking much, Sam, it hurt, I missed you and it hurt because I left you alone, everything was too much but if I had just stayed, we could’ve worked through it together, and we did work through it, but I still left you alone and somehow you’re still being good to me, damn you, Wilson — well, it felt like saying too much.

“I’m sorry I left.” Bucky’s voice was low and tight. Even those words, so simple compared to the voices bouncing around his skull, he had to force out, bitter in his mouth, on his tongue. “And I’m sorry I lied to you.” He hadn’t apologized fully, over the phone; he’d needed to look Sam in the eye, to say it right. 

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he went on, steadier. “Keeping you out of it, so you wouldn’t get pulled down with us. But I should have just told you the truth.”

“You know what pissed me off the most about it? Honestly?” Sam didn’t let go of Bucky’s hand as he spoke, his voice calm and gentle despite his words, even as he continued. “It was that you didn’t trust me enough to choose what I wanted. I should’ve had the chance to decide for myself what I was willing to risk, not have you decide that for me.” He smiled, rueful. “But I would’ve chosen you, and you wanted me kept out of it, so that was that. But I should’ve gotten to make that choice.”

“I know, Sam.” Bucky swallowed hard, mouth dry. He knew a thing or two about wanting to be able to make choices. 

He sat up fully, crossing his legs and bowing his head slightly, Sam’s hand still squeezing his own. Sam, who deserved a better explanation than what Bucky had given. Sam, who deserved to know the full truth of why Bucky had even gotten himself involved in this bullshit in the first place.

“I didn’t tell you this when it happened, because I didn’t know how to,” he said eventually, and he could feel Sam’s gaze on him, giving him his full attention. “But it’s — it’s why I even joined the goddamn team. I wanted to help people, you know that, but not under Valentina. So I wasn’t going to. I was gonna just tell Yelena no, despite it all.” Despite the chance, he thought privately, the chance to be good again, because it wasn’t a real chance, because good under evil is just bad. “But the thing is —,” 

Bucky swallowed tightly, mouth dry. Sam squeezed his hand, grounding.

“Steve called me,” Bucky managed at last, forcing out the words. “After the New Avengers shit broke the news.” He winced at Sam’s sharp, shocked inhale. “Yeah. I know. He called me, and he — he told me he was proud of me.” 

Bucky scoffed, shook his head. Blinked back the burning feeling in his eyes. 

“He shouldn’t be.” His voice was harsh and low. “He shouldn’t be, but I — I wanted him to be. I wanted to — to not give him a reason not to be, and then I was thinking about him, about the Avengers, about Valentina, and I just — I had to. I had to do something.” 

“Everyone who knows a thing about you and has their head screwed on right is proud of you, baby,” Sam told him, and it was so earnest that, for a moment, Bucky could barely breathe, his next inhale shuddering and broken-up as Sam continued. “You never had anything to prove. You never did. But I bet you thought . . .”  Sam sighed, as though realizing something. 

“You thought you needed to prove him right, huh.”

His voice was understanding, and it took Bucky a moment for that to click. When it did, he felt like an idiot.

“Of course you understand,” he said dumbly. Sam nodded, and Bucky grimaced. “Fuck. Yeah. Fuck, I just — the Avengers.” His voice shook as he fumbled over his explanation, and Sam’s grip on his hand tightened. “They mean a lot. So much, to so many.” Including me. “That’s — it’s part of what’s left of Steve’s legacy on the world. I didn’t want to ruin it, so — yeah. I was trying to protect you, and to protect the Avengers, and to protect Steve, ‘cause I’ve always been protecting Steve.” 

Bucky looked back up at Sam. At his gaze, so soft and understanding. The ache in his chest made his eyes burn, and he blinked harshly, letting out a shuddering breath before he spoke again.

“But I should have trusted you,” he said. “I knew I could. I just . . . didn’t.”

Sam squeezed his hand tightly, even as Bucky watched his expression twist. “You did what you thought was right,” he said softly. “I understand, Buck. And I always knew that; even when we were fighting, even when I had no idea what the hell was going on, I knew that you were doing what you thought was right. Even if I didn’t understand why that was.” He sighed.

“And — you’re not the only one who has things to apologize for. I knew something was wrong, and I never should have said — I shouldn’t have implied . . .”

Sam trailed off, guilt and grief and regret bright in his gaze, but Bucky knew what he meant. 

You used to care, Bucky, Sam had said when they had fought, caught up in his hurt and anger and confusion. You used to fight against this. And now you’re just a lapdog for another greater evil?

“I’m sorry,” Sam said finally, and Bucky nodded, blinking out of the memory with a twisted little smile.

“I know,” he said, meeting Sam’s gaze, “and I know you didn’t mean it, Sam.”

“I didn’t,” Sam agreed. “But I did mean what I said about us having each others’ backs, Bucky. That doesn’t just mean when things are easy; it means when things are hard.” Sam paused for a moment. The lines around his eyes had gone soft with an odd mingling of regret and certainty. “Especially when things are hard.”

“I know,” Bucky echoed. He squeezed Sam’s hand. “I’m gonna . . . do better. With that. I’m working on it.” He hesitated, then added: “Trusting people. Trusting you. I’m trying.” More desperately, he repeated, “I’m trying.”

“Just keep trying,” Sam told him softly. “That’s all you gotta do right now, Buck. I know you have my back. I just want you to try and let me have yours.”

Bucky nodded slowly. He thought back to his first night in the Tower, with Bob, when they had walked through his memories; when they had watched Sam being the anchor Bucky had needed, in those painful moments. He thought about what he had said to Bob. When you find people . . . people to be around, to make you feel safe, to make you feel like you are safe . . . it gets easier.

He thought now that he may have been wrong, in that regard. Not with the sentiment itself — but by saying that it was easier. Because this wasn’t. It wasn't easy. But, at the same time — sitting here in their bed, holding Sam’s hand? 

That — despite all the pain, their fights and their shared hurt — was the simplest thing in the world.

No matter the circumstances — no matter the cruel words exchanged or the one-way ticket Bucky had bought in a daze, no matter the loneliness of an empty apartment or the warmth of one side of a bed over the other — just being here, with Sam, was easy. Nothing about anything else was — God knew the past few days had been so damn hard. But they were, right here and now. 

And that feeling was almost enough to soothe every ache.

“Hey.”

Bucky looked up at the squeeze of his hand, at the softly-spoken word, to meet Sam’s gentle brown gaze. He blinked, and Sam smiled.

“You with me, Buck?” He meant it in more ways than one, and Bucky, despite everything, smiled back. 

Smiling, he had found, came easier, when he was with Sam. Because nothing was easy, except for them. Them — their shared mornings, their late-night phone calls when one of them was away, their movie nights and domestic softness, and Bucky thought damn you, but it sounded more like I love you.

“Yeah,” he said, because he was. “I am.”

There was a breath of silence between them, that comfortable familiarity, and they sat in it. The silence wasn’t heavy, but it was solid; like ground they’d finally managed to find under their feet again, through the ease of themselves. 

It felt like the ebbing away of a storm. It felt like the telling of a truth. But mostly, it felt home. 

Bucky’s smile grew, his eyes crinkling around the edges. He pulled his hand suddenly away from Sam’s, and there was no time for hurt to creep into those hazel brown eyes before Bucky lifted his hand, cupped Sam’s face, and kissed him softly.

Yeah, he thought, as Sam smiled into it and kissed him back, cupping his face with both palms, the ache of it all soothed by the gentle, familiar touch, until there was nothing more than a distant memory of any pain at all, because this was home.

When everything was said and done — when Valentina had been dragged (kicking and goddamn screaming) into the light, when the evidence had been laid out piece-by-piece, when the verdict had been handed down with a rare serving of true justice from the system — things shifted.

The New Avengers did end up losing the trust of the world for a while, not that they had even had a whole lot to begin with. But with quiet persistence, they proved themselves again: not through words, but through action. Through saving lives, helping people — building things up instead of tearing them down, again and again. And the New Avengers truly did become something new. 

Bucky had asked Sam, the day after he had come home from the Tower, about joining the team, despite the chaos and media backlash since Valentina’s expose. Sam had asked him, had challenged him — “What does that even mean, Buck?” 

What did it mean — to be an Avenger? 

They had settled on the shared realization that being an Avenger meant doing the work, for something greater than yourself. Not for heroics, not for a ‘clean slate’ — but for others. For the world. That was what made an Avenger. That was why, under Valentina, they never could have been Avengers. And that — that mindset, that Bucky had given to the rest of the team, even Walker — had helped them immensely. 

Through the frustration of fighting against the backlash of everyone who didn’t understand, they knew that they were in it to help those same people, and everyone else. That was what it all meant, and that was why they kept fighting for themselves — because it wasn’t for themselves, not really. 

And they proved themselves again. 

Not through selling merchandise of themselves (Alexei had had that bright idea, which Walker had all-too-eagerly gotten involved in, and it was a battle Bucky hadn’t wanted to fight), or through their connections to the original Avengers (Yelena publicly addressing her sisterhood ties to Natasha had gone trending for weeks afterward), or even through Bucky and Sam standing side-by-side at a press event, shaking hands and receiving Captain America’s official endorsement. 

They proved themselves by fighting to help people.

The New Avengers became something new, but also kept true to being Avengers. People who fought for things bigger than themselves. 

That was when Steve called again.

He called the morning after Bucky had made a public statement after a mission. He had been asked why he, despite his past, was choosing to step up and fight. “Didn’t you say, in your Congressional run, that you were tired of fighting on the battlefield?” The news reporter had questioned, genuine curiosity there. “Why join it again?”

Bucky had smiled, tired. He had thought of his team — of Yelena, Bob, Ava, Alexei, even goddamn John. He had thought of Sam. He had thought of everyone, of the world that he fought to protect. 

“I’ve been fighting since 1943,” he had said. “Both for people, and against them. I thought I was done. Done with the fighting, done with it all. But . . .” 

Bucky had raised his gaze; looked past the cameras, to where the rest of the team was milling about. He had caught Yelena’s gaze, and given her a nod. He had thought of Bob. He had thought of Sam. And he had looked back at the reporter with something close to a smile on his face.

“Some folks helped me realize that to help people, I gotta get back in it. So I did. And I’m damn glad. I’m still tired — God knows that’s been around since 1943, too. But it’s a good kind of tired. The kind that comes from knowing you did good — for other people.” He had nodded. “Captain America taught me that. Thank you.”

He had dipped away from the reporters clamoring around him (he usually didn’t give them more than two seconds of his time; they were all fairly baffled at his openness, though most were asking which one?, as if it couldn’t be both men who had held the mantle, both inspiring him to do good, to be good, simply by picking up the shield) to rejoin his team, and to call home. To let Sam know he might not be home in time for dinner; work was running a little late. But he’d be home. 

And then — that next morning, early as all hell, because being a morning person was a Captain America prerequisite, Bucky had thought with a huff as he had picked up the phone — Steve had called. 

“I thought you were done surprising me, Buck,” he rasped — sounding older, wearier, but still full of that same stubborn warmth he’d always had. Bucky smiled up at the ceiling, huffing a laugh.

“In your dreams, pal.”

Steve laughed, too, a chuckling rasp. “Give Sam my regards?” He asked warmly. Bucky, lying on his side of the bed, glanced over to where Sam was sprawled out on his, still asleep. His smile grew.

“You know I will.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Bucky?”

“Steve.” Bucky’s breath nearly caught, because he already knew what Steve was going to say.

“I’m proud of you.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He glanced back over at Sam — his partner’s eyes had opened, and he was looking at him with softness in his dark brown gaze, and a smile on his face. Bucky propped the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could take Sam’s hand in his own, squeezing lightly: a grounding anchor. Tethering. 

“I know,” Bucky said, taking a breath. Sam squeezed his hand back, and he smiled again. “So am I.”