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He had good days, now. Maybe that was why it threw him off, the nightmare.
It wasn’t a nightmare, not really. It was a good dream.
It had been summer... It was hazy now, but the picture—the memory—drifted back into his mind as the lingering sleep washed out. Becca had been smiling, sunflowers in hand. They were soft under his fingers, he remembered. Then she was crying because he had plucked the petals off.
Bucky sat up, propping against the headboard. There was sweat on the sheets and down his back and temple.
Brooklyn, 2026. His eyes blinked past the dream to the dark beige walls and high ceiling. The taste of guilt sat fresh under his tongue, just as sharp as that day when it had left him strangely quiet even after her tears stopped.
A potted plant sat by the window. It tended to do as well as Bucky did, most days. Today it was mostly green, save for a few dried orange leaves from when he'd forgotten to water it. He turned, and there was a flash of gold where his vibranium arm sat an—hah—arm's reach away.
The sounds drifted in through the windows, distant enough to blur together. Brooklyn never sleeps. He brought a hand up, rubbing his face, feeling the day-old stubble.
He had left sunflowers at Becca's grave. It was stupid, maybe, but he had never apologized. She had torn up his sketchbook after that, after all. He didn't even mind. He wished she could do it again.
At least then he wouldn't be alone.
Alone. He wasn't, really. Alpine was here somewhere, asleep in the hallway, curled up in the cardboard box she'd claimed over every plush bed Bucky had bought her. Mr. Romero was expecting him later to help put up a shelf, and Bucky already knew lunch would somehow become non-negotiable.
There was Aleen at the compound. She'd wanted to check his arm later today, after giving him a talk making it clear she wasn’t impressed that he'd walked off worse injuries.
He flexed his arm, took in the distinct lack of pain shooting through the muscle, which was good. But he'd still have to go. One pointed look from Sam during the debrief had settled that.
And, right, he had Sam.
He'd been with Sam just yesterday, for a mission. He'd expected things to settle back into what they were before, after the week in Louisiana. And they had. Mostly. Except now it was different. A good different.
They'd meet whenever one of them was in the city, which, somehow, was more often than Bucky would have expected. Usually it was a mission—Sam needing a hand, Bucky pretending he minded even when he didn’t, often ending with Sam buying him coffee as thanks.
It was rarely for long. After all, Sam had his Captain America thing. Bucky had his senator thing.
His eyes found the side table, a little mahogany thing that came with the bed. Because Bucky had a bed now. A mattress. Unlike Alpine, he actually used it most days.
The phone sat on top of it, a sleek panel of metal and glass.
‘Call me, Buck’ Sam had said months back by the lakeside, his eyes crinkling as Bucky headed back to Brooklyn. Even though he knew Bucky preferred to text.
‘Call me, okay?’ Sam had said, eyes serious just yesterday, before taking off to DC. Bucky didn’t think much of it, had brushed it off as Sam being Sam.
But now… Sam said he could call, right? Anytime.
The phone on his table was more tempting than the gun he knew was underneath.
Scratch that, it wasn't like that. He was better now. He had a life he loved, even if it was more trouble than most. The awareness still lingered, though.
He reached for the phone instead.
The screen lit up immediately, the bright light making him squint. He blinked until the words came into focus. He swiped at the text before he registered them.
‘We’re done for the day. Finally’
Another message sat beneath it.
‘Don't forget to go to the hospital tomorrow, old man.’
The call button sat above.
He knew what Sam was going to say. That he was overreacting. That he should have gone to the hospital already. He'd tease him, maybe, and then they would bicker. Argue. Nothing they hadn't done before.
His thumb hovered over the button, feather-light, and tapped before he could talk himself out of it.
The dial tone filled the room. Bucky fought the urge to hang up when it rang once. Then twice.
The next ring skipped a beat—and all of a sudden there was a sleepy, somewhat confused—
"Bucky?" Sam’s voice was deep, rough like he’d just woken up.
He was asleep—that was the first thing Bucky registered. Only now did Bucky see the time. The damn time; it was past three in the morning.
"Sorry." The word tumbled out before he could stop it. "I didn't mean to wake you—"
"Hey." There was some shuffling on the other end, then a click. Bucky paused, imagining Sam with the phone tucked between his shoulder and chin as he turned on the lights. "It’s okay. Trouble sleeping?”
“No, uh, just woke up.”
“Bad dream, huh?"
Cold sheets. The sudden jolt awake. The empty room after.
It wasn't a nightmare, though. Not really. But how could Bucky explain that waking up was the part that hurt?
"Sort of. But I'm fine." Bucky glanced at the clock. "Forgot the time."
Sam, blissfully, didn't push further. "You're at your apartment, right?"
There was a half-yawn on the other end, quickly stifled. Guilt settled over Bucky again. Sam should be getting whatever rest he could these days. They had him doing everything.
"…Yeah."
"Okay." A pause. "You're hurt?"
"No."
"That's good. Gun?"
The question was asked in passing, like another item on a checklist. Probably a habit. But Bucky's eyes drifted back to the drawer by the bed. He'd been staring at it without realizing.
Cold metal. The familiar weight of it. Comforting, in the worst possible way.
"Bucky."
Sam didn't sound sleepy anymore. Not a hint of it.
"It's not like that." Bucky said, snapping at himself.
"Okay." Another beat of silence. Bucky could hear Sam deciding something. "I'm driving over."
"What? No, I don't—" I don't need you.
Except that would be a lie, wouldn't it? The same lie that had followed him all the way back to Brooklyn. "I just told you I'm fine. Didn't think you'd hit your head yesterday."
"I want to," Sam insisted, not taking the bait. He sounded awfully sincere, but perhaps that was just the hour. "C'mon, man. Can't you do me a favor? I can hear Torres snoring from the next room."
Bucky frowned at the phone. "Aren't you in DC?"
"No. New York. The gala got cancelled because of the—"
"Rain in DC."
"—Rain in DC." They finished the sentence together.
"Don't, Sam." Bucky's grip tightened around the phone. "It's nothing, really. I didn't mean to call."
"Yeah, I know. That's the cute part." Sam sounded entirely too amused. "But I'm not asking." The call ended before Bucky could get another word in.
He stared at Sam's name on the screen, then tossed the phone onto the bed. He buried his face into the mattress, his pillow nowhere to be found.
Why'd he think calling was a good idea?
The bell rang, just as promised, about twenty minutes later. He opened the door, and then—
It was Sam.
His eyes immediately swept over Bucky, taking him in like he was trying to read something he couldn’t quite decipher. A duffle bag hung from one hand, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and the shield was clipped securely at his side.
"Let me get that."
Bucky reached for the duffle, shifted instinctively—and felt the empty space at his left side. He hadn't gotten around to attaching his arm.
Alpine was a flash of white against the floor. She didn't seem to mind being woken by the light. Sam's gaze drifted past Bucky and over the apartment, and suddenly Bucky became acutely aware of the room around him. But it was clean. Tidy. There was nothing out of place. No reason to fidget, yet he found himself shifting his weight anyway.
The movement drew Sam's attention back to him. To Alpine at his feet.
Normally, Sam would've crouched down to scoop her up without a second thought. Bucky watched Sam soften, the quiet ‘hey’ he cooed out. And then that same fondness settled, when he turned to face Bucky.
Sam looked tired, but not disappointed. Not angry.
The graze along his cheek was still swollen, the bruise looked like it would linger for days. It caught Bucky's eye, reminding him, once again, that the same hit landed differently on each of them. A punch that barely registered to Bucky could leave its mark on Sam.
No serum, Bucky thought. Not that Sam needs it.
He looked terribly human, was all.
Bucky tore his gaze away, used the moment to set Sam's duffle beside the empty space near the kitchen.
When he came back, Sam had already settled onto the sofa. Alpine sat beside him, pressed comfortably against his thigh.
"Hey, sit down."
Before Bucky could answer, Sam caught him gently by the wrist and tugged.
Bucky let himself be pulled, dropping onto the cushion beside him. His gaze fell to Sam's hand still wrapped around his wrist. Sam gave it a small, reassuring squeeze before letting go, reaching instead to set his phone on the coffee table.
Alpine nudged her head against Bucky's knee, gave him a slow, sleepy blink, then hopped down to the floor.
"How's the arm?" Sam asked.
Are you okay? he didn't ask, as if he already knew he wouldn't get an answer or that he’d get a lie.
Sam didn't look awkward at all. He looked like he had done this a hundred times before.
And he probably had.
Sam was a counselor. Bucky couldn't have been the first late-night call, right? He probably knew better than to ask questions someone wasn't ready to answer. And, right, he had asked about his arm instead.
Bucky flexed his shoulder. It still ached, a deep soreness beneath the skin, but that was expected. Healing.
"It's better," he said. His eyes flicked to the bruise on Sam's cheek. "Better than your face."
A corner of Sam's mouth twitched.
"Why'd you come?" Bucky asked.
Sam only shrugged. "You called." Then, with the faintest hint of a grin, he added, "Figured you could use the company. You missed this pretty face."
Sam was cocky. Bucky hated that he wasn't exactly wrong, either.
"You wish, sweetheart." The nickname slipped out before he could stop it. He'd meant it as a tease, something dry enough to brush past, but the word landed between them with more sincerity than he'd intended. Heat crept into his ears.
Sam laughed, and the warm sound filled the room. His eyes crinkled, something almost fond, then settled. He looked far too awake for the hour, especially when he turned that gaze on Bucky.
"So..." Sam tipped his head until it rested against the back of the sofa, looking at Bucky from the side. "You hate phone calls."
The words were light. Not quite a question, but not merely a statement, either. An invitation, perhaps.
The urge to explain bloomed in Bucky's chest. But God, where was he even supposed to start? Explain it to Sam when he could barely make sense of it himself.
"It was Becca." The words left his mouth before he could think better of them. He winced immediately, because it didn't connect. At all.
"Your sister," Sam said, a hint of wonder as the realization settled. There was curiosity there, and Bucky couldn't blame him. He just... he didn't really talk about Becca. He hadn't, not even with Steve. Because what was there to say? She'd been fourteen when he'd shipped out.
"I was eleven, I think. Ma had gotten her sunflowers." His gaze drifted past Sam, settling somewhere at the wall. "She was really happy."
A smile found him before he realized it. "It was stupid. I plucked the petals, I don’t remember why. But she was so mad."
Sam let out a gasp, his grin widening. "Oh, you didn't."
"I did. And Becca tore up my sketchbook. There were pieces all over the house."
"Serves you right," Sam said. "A real spitfire, huh? It's like it ran in the family or something."
"You don't know how right you are."
But then again, maybe Sam did. Bucky had seen him with Sarah, seen the way he could match her sharpness with his own.
The grin on his face faded, just slightly, as his gaze dropped to his hand resting in his lap.
"We'd get on each other's nerves all the damn time, but I—"
Loved her so much.
The words caught somewhere in his throat, suddenly wet. He could feel a pressure build behind his eyes.
"Yeah. I—it wasn't a nightmare, really. It was a good dream." The admission sounded strange even to him. "I don't know why I called."
They would've gotten along, Bucky realized. Becca and Sam. He could picture it too easily. They both took far too much pride in winding him up, both too amused by the way he reacted.
He wasn’t sure, really, when he’d started thinking of Sam as family.
"You didn't have to come, Sam," he finished quietly, the apology sitting just behind the words.
Sam didn't answer immediately. When he did, he looked away. Bucky followed his gaze to the cat climber he had set up for Alpine last week. She still preferred the sofa.
"I was a counselor before, at the VA…" Sam paused, taking a breath. "I get calls sometimes. Less now, but I still do. And I don't mind. Because for every call I get, there's three I don't."
Sam turned to look at him now, at Bucky's hand that was toying over the cushion.
"So if you're fine," He looked up, meeting Bucky's eyes. "Then I'm glad I came. That I got to spend an evening with a friend."
Whatever he had expected, it wasn't that.
"It's four a.m. It's morning," Bucky tried, because Sam couldn't have actually enjoyed being woken up.
Sam gave him a look, refusing to take the bait. "Buck. I would've driven across the city for a veteran I never even met." His expression softened. "You really think I wasn't gonna do it for you?"
Oh.
Sam held his gaze. "I meant it, Bucky. You can call me. Anytime."
The room went quiet again.
Silence—the absence of sound. Yet Bucky felt strangely full instead of empty. Slowly, his grip loosened, fingers uncoiling from where they had curled into his palm.
The duffle and backpack were still sitting by the table where he had left them.
"You're not going back to the hotel, right?"
"God, no." Sam leaned back into the couch. "I wasn't kidding when I said Torres snores. And don't forget the other sounds in hotels."
"Don't tell me. At least you don't have super hearing."
"True," Sam allowed. He sank further into the cushions, and the couch dipped with the shift. A warm knee pressed against Bucky's thigh, an easy point of contact neither of them acknowledged.
"I was thinking of getting a place here, actually. In New York."
"New York, huh?" His surprise must have been clear.
"I’m already here for half the week. It couldn't hurt." Sam said. There was exhaustion there too, and not just from tonight. They had him running all around the world.
Bucky watched the shield that Sam had conveniently left on the spare chair.
They had Sam running all over the world, asking him to show up wherever he was needed, whenever he was needed. And the world needed Sam, Bucky had seen it firsthand. For the past two months, Sam had been flying to Louisiana between missions only to turn around and fly back the next day.
It had to be exhausting, if Sam was considering seriously staying. Bucky didn't regret stepping away from the missions, except when Sam called.
"I barely get time to mentor Torres," Sam continued. "And yeah, there's always the compound, but..."
"It's not the same," Bucky finished. Not after Steve and Stark, no, Tony. The world wasn't really the same. "You could stay with me."
Sam's eyebrows flew up.
"It can't be that bad." Bucky gestured around with his hand, suddenly too aware of the empty space where his arm should have been.
"Yeah, no." Sam took a look around the flat. The plants. The furniture. The mugs lined up neatly in the kitchen. Little pieces of home Bucky had stubbornly collected.
"It's good, Buck." There was genuine surprise in his voice. A pleasant kind, the opposite of whatever Bucky imagined Sam had felt when he woke him up. "It's better than last month."
Bucky remembered last month. When it was just him, Alpine, and the potted plant. Mattress on the floor. Two months ago, when there had only been cardboard boxes.
Now there was more. More than he'd owned in years. Ever, perhaps.
"Right." He cleared his throat. "Just figured you could try it out before you go flying around buyin’ apartments."
It was a nice place.
There was Alpine curled up on the armrest behind him, asleep. He had built a home, even if it was lonelier than he remembered. There was an invitation to another gala in Manhattan if he was serious about being a Senator. There was a life waiting for him, enough to share, if he wanted.
Sam pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "Bucky Barnes, are you asking me to move in with you?"
Bucky gave a pointed look. "Temporarily."
Like it mattered. Like temporary meant anything other than until Sam decided otherwise.
"Huh." Sam looked thoughtful, his expression turning contemplative.
Bucky looked at him and saw laugh lines, Louisiana, and sea salt. It couldn't have been easy for Sam to take on the mantle of Captain America.
But Sam made it look effortless.
"I might take you up on that," Sam admitted. There was relief hidden in the words.
Sam had brought him into his home. His family. Had offered Bucky a place to stay when he needed one.
How could Bucky not offer the same?
There were things Bucky still had to figure out. Things he hadn't come close to figuring out yet. But he had made it this far.
"So, do you still have that spare room, or am I sharing the sofa with the cat? Because—" A yawn interrupted Sam. "—I don't mind."
The knee against his thigh shifted, and Bucky had the strange thought that Sam would simply fall asleep right there if he let him.
A strange fondness that filled him at the sight. Sam, for all his easy smiles and endless jokes, was careful with his heart.
And here he was. In wrinkled clothes, eyes half-lidded, completely at ease. Ready to share the couch with Bucky’s cat.
Bucky stood and held out his hand. "Room's all yours. Don't worry."
Sam blinked up at him, fighting sleep. His hand closed around Bucky's firmly as he let himself be pulled up. “Deal.”
Somewhere, a sunflower laughed.