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Four days. Four whole days since Bucky’s last shower. It wasn’t something he was proud of, hence the mess of used wet wipes now sitting in the trash, which he had used two days prior in an attempt to clean himself. He hadn’t done any of his usual self-care, albeit that wasn’t much to begin with. He could feel the plaque settling on the meeting point between his teeth and his gums. His hair was getting ratty. He felt slick, like he’d swam through an oil spill. Despite all of this, he just couldn’t bring himself to do something about it.
He rolled over in bed with a soft grunt, shifting his vibranium arm awkwardly in an attempt to get comfortable again. With the curtains drawn, the only light in the room was a soft glow from the bathroom, which Bucky interpreted as being a very annoying jab at his hygiene.
Click-click.
Bucky jolted upward, brow furrowed, as he heard the front door begin to unlock. His muscles tensed up. Cli-click. A stutter? Somebody was fidgeting with it. Struggling. He crept out of bed as the clicking became something akin to a jostling of the door. As he turned the corner, it became a pounding. A fist against the dark brown wood. His chest tightened. Shit.
Run. Grab a weapon. Do something, anything, fight, who cares? He thought— and, strangely, he found himself doing nothing. Standing twelve feet from the door, frozen like a deer in headlights. The pounding continued.
Every part of him screamed, do something. move, move, move, at least assess the threat, or run if you absolutely must, just-
“Buck! You in there?” A familiar voice called from the other side of the door.
Oh thank god.
Bucky felt his muscles relax, his fists falling into a much less threatening resting position.
“…Yeah,” He peeped.
“Well then would you unlock this door, please? I think you left the latch at the top locked again.”
Bucky didn’t reply, only lifted the latch and stepped away. Sam came to a sudden halt as he entered, eyebrows lifted slightly at the sight of Bucky.
“What?” Bucky muttered.
“Nothing, you’re just doing the staring thing again, man.”
Oh.
He looked back down at the floor, then glanced around the room, then at his well-dented hoodie strings that he’d been chewing during bouts of anxiety.
After a long moment watching Sam unload his bag, Bucky found nothing new to shift his gaze toward.
“I’m gonna go lay down,” he muttered, slinking down the hall toward the comforting gloom of his bedroom. Sam gave no reply.
After a few minutes, Sam cracked open the door with a polite knock.
“Hey Buck, you okay? I don’t think you’ve turned this light on once in like… Almost a week.”
Bucky nodded, face smushed against his pillow.
“I’m fine.”
Sam sighed and sat on the far side of the bed.
“You could always give Dr. Raynor a call. I know your schedule just changed from weekly to every couple of weeks, but it might not hurt to go back to–“
“No. I can manage, this is just… A bad week. It happens. And I’d rather not deal with her and the whole writing-shit-down-right-in-front-of-me thing anyway.”
“Do you need any help, at least? I don’t say this to be snarky but you look kind of a mess.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. Sure, it was true, but he was gonna act annoyed anyway, because Sam was the one pointing it out. He tugged the blanket further over himself.
“I’m fine. I’ll try to shower… Later. I just wanna lay down right now.”
Sam let out a soft sigh, patting his hand against Bucky’s calf before rising to his feet.
“Alright, but I’m gonna hold you to that. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right,” Bucky muttered.
The next hour or so dragged on. It was mostly silent, save for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall or the occasional shuffling from Sam as he made his way around the house. Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t try to sleep through it. He just laid there, staring at the ceiling, breathing the best he could despite the invisible weight sinking into his chest.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to call Dr. Raynor, he thought, before remembering her no-bullshit, almost passive-aggressive behavior and shoving the thought away. He needed something else. He needed care that he just wasn’t able to provide himself with.
Sam came through the door again (without a knock this time, Bucky noticed) and gave him a pat on the arm.
“Alright, up and at ‘em, Mr. Mopey. You gotta shower.”
Bucky groaned, flipping over onto his stomach with his face smothered into the pillowcase. Sam promptly pushed him onto his back.
“No. We ain’t doing that. Work with me here, man. How can we make this easier for you?”
Bucky shrugged.
“I just can’t do it, Sam. Putting in the effort sounds excruciating, and the idea of standing silently, naked, in loudly-rushing hot water, sounds even–“
“You know what? Let’s do it together.”
What?
Apparently Bucky had said it aloud, because Sam replied,
“I mean, if that’s too weird, I get it. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. But if it’ll help, I’ll join you and, hey, if you wanna kick me out at any point, I’ll get out.”
Bucky’s jaw felt wired shut. Though his brain was, surprisingly, not mechanical, it felt as though the gears in his head had been jammed. Hard.
In a quick few seconds, Bucky went through at least twelve emotions. Does he WANT to do this? Does he pity me? Shit, does he feel obligated? He’s not my caretaker or something. Is this gay? Is HE gay? I’ve never—
“You gonna answer me?”
Bucky blinked at him mindlessly. His ears felt hot.
“Uh, yeah, that would be… That would be nice. Or, well, not nice, I just– I appreciate the help, is what I’m trying to say.”
Sam grinned and rolled his eyes in that “what-a-dork” way, patting Bucky on the chest and rising to his feet.
“I’ll get the water running. Don’t go anywhere.”
Something about this situation made Bucky feel different. Sam told him not to go anywhere, and he did exactly that, but it felt less like a command and more like… Actually, he wasn’t sure. But it was good.
There were times where he’d be asked to do something, and for just a moment, he’d “snap back into it”. Not to the full extent, but he’d find himself taking it as a command and pushing everything else aside. Staring more. Clenching his jaw subconsciously.
This– He– was warm. Inviting. Comforting. Bucky knew he could move if he wanted to, that Sam wouldn’t inflict any sort of punishment upon him, but by god, why wouldn’t he listen to that man?
Sam returned from the bathroom, the shower already leaving a thin trail of steam wafting through the curtain.
“You go ahead and get in. I’ll grab us towels and fresh clothes.”
Bucky nodded, creeping shyly into the bathroom and shutting the door. His hands came to a quick halt as soon as he began to lift up his hoodie. Anxiety overwhelmed him, but he didn’t want to stop.
By the time he was standing naked in the shower, he heard the door squeak open.
“Buck?” Sam called.
“Hi.”
“You still wanna do this?”
Yes. God yes. Absolutely.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Alright.”
Bucky listened closely as Sam shuffled out of his t-shirt and slid the jeans off of his legs. After a minute or so, his hand peeked in from the other side of the shower curtain.
“I’m about to come in. That okay?”
Bucky nodded eagerly.
Wait. He can’t see me.
“Yeah.. Yeah, that’s fine,” he replied.
Bucky tried to avert his gaze. To look anywhere other than directly at Sam, at his smooth, bare skin, at his chest, at his—
He shoved the thought down.
The floor. Yeah. The floor is good.
Sam let out a chuckle.
“You can look at me, it’s cool. You don’t have to stare at the floor.”
Does he want Bucky to look at him?
After a few seconds of apprehension, Bucky shifts his head upward, and there he is. Sam, right in front of him. The moment almost felt unreal.
“Alright. If you still wanna do this, how about I get your hair washed?” Sam said, picking up the bottle of shampoo perched on the shelf. Bucky noticed that, for a split second, Sam’s eyes lingered on the label, as if he were trying to memorize it. Bucky brushed it off and gave him a nod.
The second Sam’s soap-lathered hands met his scalp, his body relaxed. The movement of his fingers was firm, yet gentle. Reassuring. Comforting. In an instant, he felt completely safe. The world outside of this shower ceased to exist. It was just him, Sam, and a bottle of sandalwood-scented shampoo. Bucky shut his eyes and took in a deep, slow breath.
“Move forward a little, let me rinse this out,” Sam directed. Without a second thought, Bucky followed through. The water dribbling down his face was soothingly warm, and Sam’s hands massaging his roots made the experience all the more pleasurable. After repeating the process a second time, Sam grabbed Bucky’s bodywash. He came to a halt when he looked up at Bucky’s surprised expression.
“I don’t have to do this part if you don't want me to.” Sam flipped the bottle shut with a click.
Bucky thought for a long moment.
“No, it’s fine, uh.. Go for it,” he mumbled. With one brow raised, Sam continued in his process, soon pressing his sudsy hands against Bucky’s clavicle. Now that they were pressed directly to the skin, Bucky could get a much better understanding of their feel; warm and impressively smooth, a description that wasn’t often paired with a history of hero work. Not like his own, which was rough in contrast, and almost as frigid as its metal counterpart.
Being so close to Sam was somehow thrilling and calming at the same time. He had never allowed such an intimate moment to come to fruition, and he wasn’t entirely sure what made this one different. All of the lengthy gazes, the brushing of wrists, the tonal shifts that he certainly picked up but never called out— he snuffed them out quickly. Not because he was uncomfortable. Once again, he was unsure of his own reasoning.
But none of that mattered this time. They were here, in Bucky’s shower, and Sam was closer to him than he’d ever allowed before. Most importantly, Sam was incredibly close and he was enjoying it. His eyes shut once again. He focused on the warmth of Sam’s hands as they trailed down his back in gentle circular motions.
Eventually, the pair stepped out of the shower. Bucky shivered as the cold air shocked his skin, reaching frantically for a towel. Sam shot him an endearing grin, which Bucky could only assume contained a barely-audible chuckle. Sam situated his towel against his body.
“Was that alright?” He asked. Bucky nodded.
“Maybe I should be depressed more often,” he joked.
“Or,” Sam chided, “You could be happy and healthy, and we can do this again anyway.”
Bucky savored the thought.
“That sounds like a much better idea.”