Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bucky had hoped, after everything he'd been through and then saving the world, that his more… personal issues would've simply sorted themselves out in the meantime. To his utmost irritation, when he returns to his government-assigned barren flat in the middle of the city, it's to find himself burdened with all the same baggage he left with. Food tastes like ash, lights feel too bright, his skin feels wrong on his own body.

Most of all though? His words are still locked away. Buried deep in his chest, where it was almost physically painful to retrieve them from when he forced himself to politely decline any sort of company.

Words feel so far out of his reach, even after everything Wakanda had done to give him back his autonomy. Some wounds just… lingered. Etched into his skin like invisible lines of ink.

He didn’t speak at Hydra aside from for mission reports, and when he did, he was punished each time. Anything other than a blank, monotone mission report was met by pain, shocks, silence forced back down his throat. 

So now he's quiet, for the most part.

But not a natural quiet. The kind of quiet born of trauma. A quiet that wraps around his ribs like wire, tightens when he tries to talk. The kind that makes words feel like jagged things caught behind his teeth.

It's fine, for a while, during his solitary lifestyle, to the point he got used to not speaking for weeks up to months at a time.

And then Steve left. And when Steve left? Sam arrived. 

Sure, Bucky had known Sam. But not as anything other than reluctant allies, in fact he was quite sure Sam hated him to a degree. 

At least until Sam showed up at the front door of his depressing apartment with snacks.

A basket of them, even. What looked like a blanket. A glint of metal Bucky couldn't identify. A container of milk. Bucky felt his brain reboot at the oddly domestic sight. 

"Hey man, sorry to overstep. Been checking on everyone lately, couldn't leave you out.”

Sam offers him an easy grin, and for a painful moment Bucky is reminded of the easy way Steve had always talked to him, even after everything.

His words feel like taffy behind his teeth.

The silence stretches for a moment, intensely painful. Sam shifts from foot to foot. Blinks.

"So uh... can I come in? Not just gonna invite myself into your space if you want me to go." Sam still has that easy air about him, but there's a slight shift in his eyes now. Nothing dangerous, no ill intentions. More just... awkwardness. Maybe even embarrassment.

Bucky clears his throat. Attempts words. The noise that comes out is more of a jumbled grunt, and he forces his mouth shut again so quickly his teeth audibly clack. Now feeling somehow even more awkward, Bucky sighs and just steps aside, waving Sam in with his flesh hand.

Somehow, blessedly, despite their rocky past meetings, Sam takes the absolute mess that is his life in complete stride. No sharp comments, no teasing about his silence. He just steps around the discarded blanket off the sofa, ignores the piles of clothes, and beelines for the small kitchen area that Bucky's apartment has to offer. Despite not using it very often, Bucky finds himself suddenly worried its somehow gross. In fact... he finds himself oddly worried that the whole flat is gross. He tries to force words out and fails once again. It hurts.

Thankfully, the silence only lingers a moment longer before Sam puts the basket down on the island in the kitchen with an audible thump, rolling his shoulders out when he's done like he'd been carrying double what he had. They both know it barely even affected him.

"Well, that's better. You mind if I make a coffee?”

Thankfully, that one is easy to answer with a casual wave of his hand, staring at the counter as Sam begins to boil the kettle, humming softly to himself all the while.

Bucky is caught up on how natural it all looks. Suddenly, his morbidly depressing kitchen feels... homely.

When Sam wordlessly pulls out a second mug, Bucky braces himself for the inevitable questions he won't be able to answer, sure Sam will get bored of his "ignorance" eventually.

To his surprise, none of that happens.

"You take milk?" Simple. To the point. At Bucky's head shake, Sam smiles like he won something, only putting milk in one of the mugs. "Betcha I can guess how many sugars."

Bucky blinks, surprised. Sam takes his silence as an invitation, tapping his chin dramatically in thought. 

"Two?" 

Bucky's heart skips a beat.

Normally, he had his coffee plain. Sugar was rationed, and all. But something compelled him to nod, and he was rewarded by a large grin.

"Knew it. You hungry? I brought a loaf, I could make eggs or something to go with toast."

Ah, there it was. 

Bucky tried frantically to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but voicing his opinions was painfully difficult, and he resorted to a helpless shrug. Was he hungry? Maybe? Did he even have eggs? When did he last eat? When did he last buy groceries? In fact, when did he last even manage to speak?

Whilst he'd been too busy spiralling to notice, Sam had taken it upon himself to open up the rarely-used fridge, clicking his tongue like a disappointed mother at the barren state of it but thankfully not being cruel enough to make some jab about "avengers money.”

Instead, he flicks his eyes over to Bucky and makes a vague gesture to the basket on the counter.

"Could you grab the Cold bits out of there? Wanna make sure they don't go bad before I get home." 

Bucky finds himself complying even though it was a gentle question, not a mission or a command. It feels almost soothing to listen to what someone else says, for once, tension unspooling from his shoulders as he slowly organises the basket into sections. Before he even realises what has happened, Bucky's voice catches himself off guard.

"What are uh.... what are these for?" The sound is gravelly. Accented. He's so stunned to hear it at all, he can't even bring himself to be embarrassed about the faint Russian lilt to his words. He hadn't spoken the language in a long time. Then again, he hadn't spoke full stop.

Sam, to his credit, doesn't even flinch, giving him a little shrug as he pops his head back out of the fridge. 

"Food, Buck. Yknow, so you can eat?" The teasing is so light, so natural, that a tiny smile pulls at Bucky's lips before he can tamp it down fast enough.

The usual bristly defensiveness he usually struggles with is nowhere to be found. Instead he feels oddly... warm?

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah man. Nothing fancy. Figured you wouldn't have milk or fun snacks like oreos, and that was just a travesty I couldn't let happen honestly.”

Bucky snorts softly at the dramatics, handing over the milk, eggs and bottles of vitamin water from the basket. Sam accepts each with a softly murmured "thanks" and they go back to working in relative silence. This time, though, it feels warm. Gentle.

Less like Bucky was being choked by his inability to speak, more like... more like companionship, if he even dared to think it. 

In order not to dwell on it, Bucky makes himself busy finishing the sorting, allowing himself a moment to bask in how soft the blanket was.

The fibres don't catch in his metal hand, and it's endlessly soft against his flesh one. He feels an intense urge to rub his cheek against it and only barely remembers in time that he has company, folding it casually instead. 

Sam is staring at him when he glances back up.

"You good, man? Zoned out on me there." His tone is gentle. Probing, but not cruel.

It feels like a smack in the face. 

Bucky makes another clumsy grunting sound before taking cover behind his coffee mug, using it as an excuse not to answer that question. He takes a sip of the coffee and is stunned into complete stillness by the soft, sweet flavour that bursts over his tongue. It's got the bitterness of coffee, and yet… not at all, a blend of flavours that feels like it factory resets his brain, making him take a second sip immediately. Then a third. Sam makes him a second cup with a soft laugh, rolling his eyes.

“That super soldier metabolism, huh?” Bucky can't bring himself to speak and manages nothing more than a clumsy shrug. 

Sam takes the hint and finishes cooking in gentle silence. He plates them with more care than Bucky thought possible for something as simple as eggs.

The eggs are good. Not perfect, but warm. Seasoned. Real.

They eat at the tiny table. Bucky chews slowly, half-wary of every mouthful. Sam hums as he eats, unbothered, at ease. Doesn’t fill the silence with empty chatter, just little sounds. Like background noise that chases away the numbness in his brain.

He flexes his hands under the table. Metal first, then flesh. Clench, release. Clench, release. His nails scrape lightly against his palms and the rhythm grounds him. Sam doesn’t comment.

Afterward, Sam clears the plates despite Bucky's best efforts to wrestle them from his grasp.

“You’re the guest of honor,” he says when Bucky finally stops fighting it, then adds, “Or maybe just a pain in my ass.”

It’s teasing, gentle.

It lands somewhere near Bucky’s chest and doesn’t hurt.

—

Sam starts visiting pretty regularly after that.

Sometimes he brings food. Sometimes he just sits and reads a dog-eared paperback while Bucky stares out the window.

Sometimes he talks about his family. His sister, his nephews, how Cass is obsessed with card tricks and AJ's trying to race birds in the backyard. He tells stories that are dumb, mundane, peaceful. He talks like the world didn’t end twice, like they're just two normal army guys in recovery. 

Bucky doesn’t say much. But he listens intensely carefully. Sometimes he nods. Sometimes, he doesn't even look like he's listening, working on his bike the whole time Sam speaks. Sometimes his throat loosens enough to murmur something. Sam never forces it.

Once, Sam talks about Riley, late in the middle of the night of one of his visits. Quietly. Carefully. His voice goes soft in a way that makes Bucky’s stomach twist unpleasantly, a shaky edge to it that makes him want to fix any problem that Sam has ever had.

When he’s done, Bucky doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer hollow words of comfort. He just passes him a glass of water, his hands careful when he hands it over so he doesn't accidentally make things worse.

Sam takes it shakily with a murmured, “Thanks, Buck.”

It’s the first time the name doesn’t feel like a blade driven between his ribs.

It makes something fluttery settle in his chest, instead.

—

There are bad days, even with his newfound companionship.

Days where the pressure in Bucky’s throat comes back like steel wire. Days where he wakes up sweating, unsure where or when he is. Days where he doesn’t remember what it feels like to be anything other than a weapon, where he needs Sam to give him a task before he can function, or asks Sam to leave for his own safety.

But Sam doesn’t fully leave on those days either.

He texts instead. Little updates. Dumb jokes. A picture of his breakfast with the caption: "rate my toast skills, 1 to 10, be honest."

Sometimes Bucky doesn’t reply. Sometimes he sends back a thumbs up. Once he sends just the number "7." Sam responds with seventeen crying emojis.

It's ridiculous, but it makes Bucky smile to himself for two days.

—

He starts speaking more, little by little. Quiet. Halting. Sam makes it feel easy.

One night, after they watch a movie Bucky doesn’t entirely understand nor care about, Sam gestures at the screen. "I don’t get how this guy just walked away from an explosion like that. His shirt wasn’t even dirty."

Bucky blinks. Shrugs.

"I mean, is that normal to you? Can you do that?"

A long pause. Bucky’s lips twitch, unable to resist such an opportunity.

"...Once."

Sam barks a laugh, staring at him in disbelief. Bucky can't help but notice how gorgeous his eyes are. “Of course you have.”

The next words are harder. But he gets them out. “I couldn’t feel my legs for a week.”

They both laugh, and it doesn’t hurt.

—

There’s a blanket on Bucky’s couch now. Not discarded, not crumpled. Folded, carefully, with the same precision he used to dismantle rifles.

He hasn’t had a nightmare in three nights, with his head resting on Sam's chest as they lay sprawled out on the sofa, Sam's fingers threading gently through his hair in repetitive motions. They don't talk about it, but it feels natural. 

He still flexes his hands. Still stims with pressure under his nails, or runs his fingers along the seams of the couch cushions. But when Sam’s there, the urge to brace for impact lessens by a significant margin.

He’s not healed. Not even close.

But he’s learning, slowly, that he’s allowed to exist in the quiet. That silence isn’t always a precursor to violence. That softness doesn’t mean weakness.

That maybe, just maybe, someone like Sam Wilson could see all the broken parts of him, and stay anyway.

Chapter Text

The first time Sam invites Bucky to meet his nephews, Bucky freezes completely.

The second time, he glares at Sam until he drops it. 

The third? He already knows he's going to cave before the conversation has begun.

“They don’t know anything,” Sam says gently. “Just that you’re a friend. You don’t have to say anything. Just… come, please?.”

Bucky swallows, flexes his fingers against his thigh, and nods stiffly.

He isn’t sure what he expects when they get to Sarah’s house. Fear? Curiosity? Maybe a polite distance? He’s fully anticipating the same kind of thin, brittle caution he gets from most strangers when they sense something jagged under his skin.

But what he gets is chaos. Loud, warm, messy love .

Cass launches a football at his head within five minutes of walking in. AJ climbs him like a jungle gym before he even gets a chance to put down his bag. They talk over each other, firing questions too fast to answer.

“Are you stronger than Uncle Sam?”

“Can you throw me? Like, all the way over the house?”

“Is your arm really made of metal? Can I see? Can I touch it?”

He is stronger than Sam. And he could probably throw AJ farther than the house, though he only mimes it. And yes, his arm is metal, and when Cass presses both palms to it reverently, the boy looks up at him like he’s some kind of superhero.

“Teach us football?” Cass begs, eyes wide.

Bucky hesitates. He shouldn’t be around children for too long. Can’t be trusted around them, certainly not doing something competitive like football.. Then he sees Cass’ pleading big eyes, and before he even realises what he’s doing, he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

He teaches them how to pass, how to fake a dive, how to chase without tackling too hard. He’s careful - maybe too careful - but the boys don’t seem to mind. Their laughter ricochets around the yard until the sun begins to sink behind the trees. Bucky doesn’t even notice, at first, that neither Sarah or Sam are keeping an eye on them. The unspoken trust sits warm and heavy in his chest, a gentle reassurance with every step that they believe in him enough to leave him unattended with the boys. 

At one point, Cass grabs his metal hand mid-throw, wide-eyed.

“This is really so awesome,” the boy breathes.

Bucky almost flinches. But it’s awe. Not fear. Just  awe that somebody might see his metal arm as something other than a weapon. These boys don’t view it with the fear he’s accustomed to, just think it's a cool shiny piece of tech that happens to be attached to him. It makes his brain a little foggy with the sheer level of relief he feels.

Later, when the game winds down and the boys are ushered inside for showers and bedtime, Bucky lingers in the hallway. He watches as they clamour into pyjamas, still buzzing about the game, nattering Sam’s ear off the whole time he tries to wrestle them under their blankets.

“Uncle Sam, did you see my throw? Uncle Bucky said I could go pro.”

“He’s so strong. He threw the ball like ten yards! He didn’t even warm up!”

“Can he come back? Please?”

Bucky stands frozen outside the door, their voices spilling over him, their words fluttering about in his chest like startled birds.

When the house finally quiets, Sam finds him out on the porch, settled comfortably on the swinging chair, watching dusk fall over the garden. He presses a glass of iced tea into Bucky’s hand without comment and sits beside him. The silence lingers for a while, as it always goes between them. Comfortable, gentle. Without any expectations. It makes it easier to respond when Sam does eventually break the quiet. 

“They love you,” Sam says.

Bucky stares at the dark yard, something complicated happening to his feelings that he can’t quite identify. “They don’t know me.”

“They know enough.”

There’s a long pause. The crickets fill it, their soft song washing over them both, adding an almost surreal air to the moment.

“I thought I’d break something. Or someone.” Bucky admits. His voice is rough again - not from disuse, for once, but from feeling .

“You didn’t,” Sam says simply. “You were gentle. You always are.”

Something stirs in Bucky’s chest. Something like pride. Something like grief.

“I’m not always good at being… here,” he murmurs after a while. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not real. Like I’m still floating outside of my own body like I used to. Like… a ghost in the wrong house.”

Sam doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t overreact, or coddle him, or try to make him explain himself and all of his problems. Just nods, simple, sure. “You dissociate?”

“Yeah.” Bucky swallows hard. “Flexing my hands helps keep me tethered. So does… touch. Heat. Cold...but not always in a good way. I-” He cuts himself off, shoulders curling inward defensively. “It’s stupid.”

“Hey, no it’s not,” Sam says softly, his eyes infinitely kind under the porch light. “I talk a lot when I feel like that. You go quiet. Same need. Just a different language.”

That strikes something deep. Bucky exhales, shaky.

After a long stretch of silence, he whispers, “It’s easier now. Talking. With you.”

Sam smiles at that. Warm. Patient. Safe . “I’m glad.”

Bucky looks down at the porch boards. His fingers brush the edge of the blanket on his lap. He doesn’t even remember picking it up. He doesn’t remember feeling cold. But now that he’s warm, he notices how much lighter he feels.

It hits him suddenly, unexpectedly.

He’s safe .

He hasn’t felt safe in years. Maybe longer.

And now, sitting next to Sam Wilson under the hush of crickets and the buzz of the porch light, stars just beginning to peek out, he realises the barbed wire around his ribs has loosened. That his skin doesn’t feel like armour anymore. That his voice, while quiet, is his again.

The lightness in his chest isn’t unfamiliar. Just long-forgotten.

Sam shifts closer and bumps their shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t tense.

He smiles. Small. But real .

Sam notices. Of course he does.

“See?” Sam murmurs, tilting his head, grinning just enough to soften the words. “You’re already better at this whole ‘being a human’ thing than you think.”

Bucky huffs something that might almost be a laugh, the sound rasping in his throat.

The silence that follows is easy. The kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

At some point, Sam leans his forearms on his knees, hands clasped, and says quietly, “You’re good with them. The boys. They look at you like…” He trails off. “…Like you’re something solid. Reliable, real.”

Bucky swallows around the knot of affection in his throat. “Don’t feel solid.”

“You feel real enough to me.”

That does something to him. It opens up a part of his chest he didn’t even know was still sealed shut.

When he risks looking at Sam - really looking - he finds Sam already watching him. There’s no pity in his gaze, no apprehension. Just warmth. Just quiet understanding.

Something in Bucky’s stomach flips. His hand, resting on the blanket, inches toward Sam’s.

Sam notices that too. And he meets him halfway. Their fingers curl together slowly.

The porch light buzzes. A cool breeze moves through the yard.

Neither of them pulls away for a long time.

After a while, Sam says, barely above a whisper, “You know… if you wanted to… you could kiss me.”

Bucky freezes. Then lets out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You’d let me?”

“Man,” Sam says, and there’s that smile again, teasing and tender all at once. “I’d encourage you. I want you to.”

It feels clumsy at first.

Bucky leans in too fast, then hesitates, his breath catching against Sam’s cheek. Sam tilts his chin just enough to guide him the rest of the way, effortlessly picking up on Bucky’s unspoken thoughts, as always.

Their lips meet softly. Just a brush at first. Tentative. Testing.

But it deepens as Bucky exhales against Sam’s mouth, letting himself lean in fully, his hand coming up to anchor on Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s fingers slide to the back of his neck and tangle in his hair, warm and steady.

When they finally pull back, the world feels quieter somehow. Softer . Bucky keeps his forehead against Sam’s for a moment, eyes shut. His breathing is uneven, but not panicked.

“Okay?” Sam asks gently, clearly a little worried, but not enough to break the tender moment.

“Yeah. Super okay.” Bucky breathes. And he means it.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, he means it.

They sit like that for a long time. Hands still tangled together. Shoulders pressed. The air is cool and sweet, filled with the faint sounds of the boys snoring inside, Sarah’s TV show in the main room, and the rhythm of their own quiet breaths.

Eventually, Sam leans back slightly and says with a crooked smile, “You and me? We’re just getting started, Buck.”

And for the first time, Bucky doesn’t feel like a ghost in the wrong house.

He smiles back. Small. But real .

“I’ll hold you to that, Wilson.”