Chapter Text
The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The concrete still hummed with the day's heat, but the air was sharp now, cutting through with the buzz of angry tension. Sam stepped out of the building, his posture unreadable, his jaw tight as he pulled off his earpiece and pocketed it. He’s still in his press suit – navy blue, pristine, the kind of cut that hugs his form with just enough arrogance. His tie has been loosened, but everything about him still radiates discipline and command. Captain America, even without the uniform.
Bucky was already waiting for him near the edge of the lot, arms crossed, jaw set. His eyes burned. He didn’t say anything immediately; he just watched, like he was trying to think about what to say without harming their friendship.
Sam noticed him immediately but didn’t react – he just kept walking to his car, unlocking it with a subtle beep. But Bucky didn’t let him go. His voice cut through the air like shrapnel, but ultimately held back an ounce of intensity.
"You couldn’t have picked up the phone?" he snaps. "You had to go national with it?"
Sam finally met his eyes. Calm, measured, calculated in a way that’s worse than yelling. "They used the name without oversight. You know that. I warned Val months ago."
"And you thought dragging me into it was your solution?"
His fists were clenched at his sides, and Sam didn’t flinch. "I didn’t drag you anywhere. You put yourself there the second you signed on with them. You knew what that name meant."
Bucky stepped closer. Too close. “You think I wanted to be part of this PR nightmare? You think I don’t know how it looks?”
Sam’s expression softens, briefly. Almost imperceptibly. "Then why didn’t you tell me?"
There’s silence. Wind. A far-off siren. Neither of them breaks eye contact.
“Because I knew you’d look at me like this,” Bucky finally muttered.
Sam’s voice cut through it: low, rough. “Like what?”
“Like I’m not worth the redemption anymore.”
Sam's jaw ticks, an almost scoff leaving his lips. “Maybe stop acting like it.”
Neither of them spoke, the distance between them shrinking into inches. Then, Sam opened his door, slid inside, and drove away without another word.
The safehouse was less a refuge and more a forgotten shack nailed into the mountainside, long since surrendered to the snow. It groaned in the wind, bitter cold slipping through the seams like it belonged there more than they did. Bucky kicked the door open with a sharp grunt, the hinges shrieking in protest, and disappeared inside without a word. Sam followed, shaking the snow from his shoulders and gloves, eyes sweeping the one-room structure like he could will it into being more than it was: a fireplace, a rusting stove, a pile of wood too damp to be useful, a torn couch, and two beds that looked like they’d been scavenged from a bunker. One was a mattress, while the other was a cot with half its frame missing.
Sam let out a breath. “Of course,” he muttered, “Government sends us to freeze our asses off with half a heating system and a goddamn flimsy bed from hell.”
Bucky tossed his duffel to the floor, unslinging his rifle with a grunt. “Should’ve sued them too,” he said, tone dry, not even looking up for a moment. The joke didn’t land – or maybe it did, and Sam just didn’t feel like giving him the satisfaction. The two didn’t speak much afterward; gear sorting, perimeter checks, and silence filled with unsaid things remained in their space.
By the second day, the silence shifted. Not gone, just changed. It had grown legs, started stalking them from room to room, settling into every exchange. Sam spent the morning pacing near the frost-covered windows, arms crossed, occasionally tapping at his dead satellite phone – like it’d change its mind. The signal was gone, comms were jammed, and intel was late. The mission, whatever the hell it really was, had stalled into the kind of bureaucratic void only the U.S. government could orchestrate.
“This doesn’t feel like bad planning,” Sam muttered aloud, not for the first time, “This feels like a test.”
Bucky, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning his knife with the kind of care that looked suspiciously like avoidance, didn’t look up. “Feels like a trap.”
“Same thing,” he replied, his voice sharper than he intended. Sam rubbed his face, then ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “You really didn’t know they were sending you on this?”
“I knew they were sending someone,” Bucky said, finally looking over, “Didn’t know it’d be you with me until I saw your name on the file. And by then, it was already sealed.”
Sam turned toward him slowly, mouth pulling into a bitter line. “Right. Always someone else pulling the strings, huh?”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t flinch. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you let it happen.”
That landed harder than Sam meant it to. Bucky’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes darkened, and for a second, something old and wounded rippled just beneath the surface. He looked down at the knife in his hand like it might hold better answers than Sam ever would.
The storm hadn’t let up. The fire was down to embers, barely more than a red smear in the dark. Sam woke up cold, disoriented, fingers flexing against unfamiliar warmth. A blanket. Not his, heavy, wool – smelling faintly like gun oil and whatever cologne Bucky wore when he still gave a damn.
He sat up slowly, the ache in his back from the damn couch reminding him just how long they’d been stuck there. Bucky was sitting near the fire, back turned, silent and utterly still except for the soft rise and fall of his chest. His metal hand glinted in the low light, resting on his knee. He hadn’t moved in hours.
“You’re not sleeping,” Sam said, voice rough with sleep.
“Wanted to let ‘Sleeping Beauty’ get his hours before I did.”
The fire crackled between them. Sam got up, wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and stood behind him, unsure why he was still talking. “You always this bad at being alone?”
“No,” Bucky said quietly. “It’s just been a while. You’ve been there most of the time.”
Sam let the silence stretch. Outside, the wind pressed hard against the windows like it was trying to claw its way in. He watched the way Bucky’s shoulders tensed beneath his clothes, how the fire light caught in the strands of his too-long hair. There was a haunted stillness to him, like he’d forgotten how to be around people who stayed.
“Didn’t think I made that much of a difference,” Sam said.
“You do,” Bucky muttered. “You just don’t see it.”
For a long time, neither of them said anything. The storm outside howled like something wild, but inside, the world narrowed to the soft hiss of the dying fire and the quiet companionship of the two of them who didn’t know how to be okay, but were trying anyway.
By the fourth day, the tension finally broke. Sam was restless, prowling the space like it might change shape if he walked it enough times. Bucky suggested sparring, saying it would “keep them sharp.” Sam agreed because the alternative was talking, and he didn’t trust himself not to say something unforgivable.
They moved through drills at first — tight footwork, measured jabs, light contact. It escalated quickly. Sam’s hit landed a little too hard, and Bucky shoved him back. Sam retaliated with a palm to the chest that sent Bucky stumbling into the wall.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sam sneered, chest heaving. “Did I hit the poor ex-assassin too hard?”
“You’re acting like I’m your enemy.”
Sam’s expression twisted. “You sure you’re not?”
The words hung there — cruel, maybe even unfair, but true in the moment. Bucky didn’t respond. Just lunged.
They hit the floor hard. Bucky rolled to pin Sam’s shoulders, but Sam twisted free, straddling him, forearms digging into his collarbones. They were breathing hard, locked in something far older and messier than a spar.
“You gonna stay down?” Sam growled, lips inches from Bucky’s.
Bucky looked up at him, eyes wild and unreadable. “Make me.”
And then they were kissing. Or maybe trying to fight through their teeth and just missed. It was angry, clumsy, and violent. Sam dragged Bucky up by the collar and slammed him against the nearest wall. They kissed like it meant nothing, which is exactly why it meant too much.
“You didn’t care what I had to do,” Sam’s voice rang sharp through the room, echoing off metal and tile. He was shaking with adrenaline and fury, and maybe something more dangerous beneath that.
“I cared, Sam,” Bucky snapped, stalking forward. “I just didn’t want to see you on the other side of a courtroom.”
Sam scoffed, stepping into his space like he didn’t care if it ended in a punch or something else. “Yeah? Then maybe call me, Bucky. Maybe don’t let me find out from a goddamn news alert that you’re standing behind people who keep risking lives like it’s a sport.”
The pause between them stretched thin. Bucky’s chest heaved once, then twice, breath ragged. His hand curled into Sam’s harness without thinking, not gently. “You wanna settle this like that?”
Sam didn’t flinch. His eyes were dark. Burning. “Been waiting.”
The kiss this time was nuclear. Less about want, more about relief. Hands tore at gear, buckles, and belts, hitting the floor in a chaotic clatter. Bucky shoved Sam back into the wall, and Sam hauled him forward by the shirt, their mouths crashing like they'd rather bruise each other than speak another word.
Sam grunted into Bucky’s throat as he scraped his fingers down Bucky’s spine, rough and unforgiving. “You think this fixes it?” he murmured, voice low and ragged. “You think this makes up for what you didn’t say?”
“No,” Bucky whispered, panting. “But I don’t know what else will.”
When Sam shoved him back into the wall and took control — firm, commanding, furious — Bucky let him, because surrendering to Sam was the only honest thing he'd done in weeks.
Sam slowly fell to his knees, worshipping almost every inch of Bucky before tugging at his underwear, practically fighting for his life to free his dick. Once he’d succeeded, his lips slowly formed around the already dripping tip, a warm flush filling Bucky’s stomach as a groan left his lips. His hips bucked forward — an action Sam was used to from past experiences — and his hands cupped his thighs, shoving him back ever so slightly against the wall once more.
“Fuck, Sam,” Bucky huffed, his head leaning against the wall as a stifled breath left his throat. A hand came up behind Sam, and a desperate few shoves caused his eyes to water slightly. He took a second off to breathe, taking a second to glance up at Bucky, before continuing with a quicker pace. There was no finesse to it, no practiced rhythm or gentle invitation — just the echo of grunts, moans, and staggered breaths.
There also wasn’t a warning to the sudden impact of Bucky holding his head in place as he felt his hips buckle, a slight whiny hum leaving his lips, before Sam’s mouth filled with the warm liquid of his cum. His grip soon loosened as he fell off his high, Sam soon coming off afterward.
“I meant to—“
“Warn me?” Sam taunted, coming to his feet with a cocky expression.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was thick with history, thick with memory, and thick with all the things they couldn’t say out loud because it would mean facing them. Bucky kissed him again like an apology, hands rough but gentle at the same time, like every contact point was a negotiation.
They made it to the cot in the corner, half-broken, sheets twisted and thin. But it didn’t matter, not when Bucky dragged Sam down with him like gravity, not when Sam’s weight settled over him and he exhaled like he hadn’t been breathing right in weeks. The room buzzed with the quiet hum of the base lighting and the echo of their breathing, ragged and close, metal fingers curling hard at Sam’s waist like a tether.
The cot creaked beneath them, metal groaning like the past they hadn’t reconciled, and somewhere between sweat and silence, Sam pressed a kiss to Bucky’s shoulder. Not lust-driven, not angry — just something soft, like he was trying to remember what it felt like to touch someone and mean it after so long.
And Bucky, for once, didn’t flinch.