Work Text:
He knows it’s not a competition. Of course he knows that. He remembers telling so many people at the VA that very thing. Just because somebody else is in rougher shape or worse off at the moment doesn’t mean what you’re going through isn’t valid. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Hell, he’s told friends that too.
The thing is, sitting up in bed at 3am, telling himself that isn’t working.
Sam vaguely feels the mattress move and dip but he doesn’t really try to figure out exactly where the man who had been—thankfully—sleeping peacefully beside him was heading. He’s got his shaking hands to focus on and Bucky’s going to get that better than most. Better than Sam does some days, he thinks. But that’s not fair to himself so he tries to shut that line of thinking off.
Deep breaths. He knows the drill. He knows how to get through it without waking anybody up even when he knows nobody’s going to give him any shit about it. Even when he knows everybody gets it, he’s got it down to an art and he knows it.
Deep breaths.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
In and out. Nice and slow. Steady.
“It’s thick out here, man. Let’s try to make this quick…”
Sam clenches his fists for a second, blowing his breath out slow and deliberate.
“This body finds that the airman in question was not at fault in the incident on—“
“Fuck…” He gets the word out through gritted teeth. It’s harder to keep his breathing even. Harder to block out the sound of everything in his head. The memories are too close, too fresh, too sharp and no matter how hard he pushes back, they keep coming.
“Riley! On your—“
The door to the bedroom opens but he doesn’t look up until there’s a Bucky shaped dent in the mattress in front of him. “Come on.”
He’s a man of few words. Sam’s getting used to that but he’s pretty easy to lead at that moment and he’s not sure more words would help or hinder the process. He gets to his feet and follows Bucky to the kitchen. The kettle’s on already and Sam focuses on the room. Scents, textures. Anything to keep himself in the moment as he sits at the kitchen table. “You too?” He says softly as he watches Bucky putter around the kitchen.
“Nah.” He closes a cupboard and leans against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, Sam guesses. “Just figured you might need something.”
Sam nodded. Bucky doesn’t ask. He never does and Sam actually appreciates it. It’s not the time to trade stories, after all. “And you figured you’d cook for once?”
Bucky smiles. “Must be feeling better if you’re getting snarky at me.”
“Must be.” Sam sighs, finally getting his breaths to even out again. It’s not much but it’s a step in the right direction. He’s still not sure how they got from ‘that guy who tried to kill me’ to ‘that guy sleeping next to me’ but it feels good. He’s more surprised by that than just about anybody and he’d fought it for a while. Bucky had too. They’d had a couple talks about dumping baggage on each other and how that wasn’t going to fly.
Eventually Steve just locked them in a room until they worked it out.
“I don’t know…” Bucky turns the kettle off and starting putting together two mugs of tea. He’s careful. Precise. There’s a method to this that might be more for Bucky than Sam but they’re both going to benefit so he doesn’t say anything about it. “I remember when I was a kid, Steve’s mom would make tea when somebody wasn’t feel good. Mine did too, I think.”
“Yeah, mine too.” Sam nods a little, rolling his shoulders a little as if that’s going to take away the tension. Maybe it does or maybe it’s the conversation. It’s a distraction and it’s more than welcome.
“Some things don’t change, right?” He sets a cup down in front of Sam and sits down with his own. “The tea’s a little fancier now though.”
Sam takes a deep breath over the mug. Black tea, a hint of cherries under the milk and honey. “One of Natasha’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Good choice.” Sam nods, taking a little sip. “Thanks.”
“Least I could do.”
Sam can’t stop himself from shaking his head. “No, the least anybody can do is nothing.”
“Touché.”
It’s quiet, peaceful in a way Sam didn’t think he’d reach earlier this quickly. But quiet isn’t always good, he finds. It makes him jittery on nights like this and while the tea is taking the edge off, there’s something missing.
It takes a second or two before he pushes his chair back and goes to the counter. A few moments later, the first quiet notes of (Sittin’ on the) Dock of the Bay fill the room. He sway slowly to the beat, letting the music dictate how he moves and the slow rhythm guide his breath until he feels Bucky press close behind him.
“Nothing Otis Redding can’t fix, huh?”
“Something like that.” Sam nods, turning to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist, guiding the other man to sway with him. “Might not be a dance hall but it’ll do.”
“Hell of a lot simpler too.” Bucky smiles, leaning in and nuzzling his neck as they move easily together in the small space. Sam relaxed as the music slipped into These Arms of Mine. He let out a long, deep breath and rested his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’ll teach you how to swing one day though.”
“Not at 3am in the kitchen, you won’t.” The bite that he usually would put behind those words is gone. He’s past the pretense. Too tired and too comfortable, dancing in their kitchen like some kind of romance movie is just a little too surreal to be an asshole in the moment. “One more song and you might just get to take me to bed, soldier.”
That got a chuckle and a kiss to Sam’s temple. “Best offer I’ve had all night.”
“Yeah, you’re a lucky man, Barnes.”
“Yes, I am.”
Sam smiles, just a little. Because he’s starting to believe it. Both of them are and even if the rest of the world goes to shit, they’ll still have this.
Maybe this romantic shit isn’t as overrated as he used to think.