Chapter Text
The mission was supposed to be routine. Sam had learned over the years that those were usually the dangerous ones. Nobody called a mission "routine" unless they were trying to tempt fate.
“Three on the east side,” Bucky’s voice crackled over the comms, low and steady.
Sam banked sharply between two abandoned warehouse buildings. The mechanical wings at his back sliced through the humid afternoon air with a sharp hiss. Below him, the shipping yard stretched toward the water in long, jagged rows of rusting containers and cracked concrete.
“I see them,” Sam replied, adjusting his goggles.
“You said that last time.”
“And?”
“And one of them shot at me,” Bucky countered, his tone dry as dust.
Sam grinned, angling his flight path downward into a steep dive. “He missed.”
“That is not the point.”
“I feel like it’s a pretty important point, Buck.”
Bucky muttered something under his breath that Sam couldn’t quite catch over the static. It was probably insulting, and definitely dramatic.
Sam didn’t reply. Instead, he fired a small, targeted burst from Redwing. One of the armed men below immediately panicked, diving headfirst behind a blue shipping container. The other two made the critical mistake of looking up to see where the shot came from.
Sam dropped out of the sky like a stone.
He hit the first man squarely in the chest with both boots. Using the brutal momentum of the impact, Sam flipped backward through the air before the second mercenary could properly aim his weapon. The wings snapped closed behind Sam with a metallic click the second his boots touched the concrete in a crouch.
The remaining mercenary scrambled, raising his rifle. Before he could squeeze the trigger, a vibranium hand wrapped tightly around the barrel.
Bucky yanked the weapon sideways, wrenching it completely out of the man's grip. The mercenary barely had time to look surprised before Bucky’s left fist connected with his jaw. Hard.
The man crumpled into a heap.
Sam straightened up, dusting off his chest piece. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you realize you’re stronger than normal people. You can dial it back a notch.”
Bucky looked down at the unconscious man, flexing his metal fingers. “He’ll live.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Bucky just shrugged, completely unbothered.
Sam glanced over toward the first mercenary, who was still lying face down behind the shipping container, apparently deciding that pretending to be unconscious was his safest bet. “Subtle work, Barnes.”
“You dropped out of the sky like a missile,” Bucky pointed out, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, but I looked good doing it.”
“You looked stupid.”
“You were impressed.”
“I was embarrassed to know you.”
Sam smirked, tapping the side of his goggles. “Your heartbeat says otherwise.”
Bucky froze, staring at him with sudden suspicion.
Sam let out a loud laugh. “Relax. I can’t actually hear your heartbeat.”
“I know that,” Bucky snapped, though his eyes narrowed.
“Didn’t look like you knew that.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
That earned him a look. It was a familiar one. Annoyed, long-suffering, and just barely hiding something much warmer underneath. Sam had gotten pretty good at reading Bucky Barnes over the last year. He knew the slight twitch at the corner of Bucky's mouth when he wanted to laugh but refused to give Sam the satisfaction. He recognized the subtle tilt of Bucky's head when he was worried, and the way those broad shoulders tightened whenever Sam flew a little too close to enemy gunfire.
Bucky had tells. Lots of them. He just didn’t know it, and Sam intended to keep it that way.
“Torres,” Sam said, tapping his comm to switch channels. “How many do we have left?”
Joaquín’s voice crackled into their ears from the intel van. “Looks like five inside the main warehouse, guys. Two more near the back loading dock.”
Bucky glanced toward the looming corrugated metal building. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Joaquín confirmed.
Sam immediately pointed a warning finger at Bucky. “Don’t say it.”
Bucky frowned, his brow furrowing. “Say what?”
“The 'E' word. Easy.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
“You were thinking it.”
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why I work with you.”
“Because nobody else likes you.”
“That’s not true.”
Sam stopped walking and stared at him. Bucky stopped too, staring right back. A long, silent beat passed between them in the humid air.
“Name one,” Sam challenged.
Bucky opened his mouth to answer. Then he paused. He closed it again, his jaw working.
Sam’s grin returned, wider this time. “Exactly.”
Bucky shoved past Sam's shoulder, muttering, “Come on.”
Sam followed close behind, laughing.
It really should have been easy. Seven remaining hostiles, a cache of stolen military weapons, and no enhanced individuals on site. There wasn't even any experimental technology beyond a handful of modified rifles. They had both dealt with much worse before breakfast.
The first four mercenaries inside went down without much trouble. The fifth immediately threw his hands up and surrendered after Sam dropped a heavy steel beam six inches in front of his toes. The sixth tried to escape through a side door, only to run directly into Bucky's chest, which ended poorly for him.
The seventh…
The seventh was apparently much smarter than the rest.
Sam’s eyes scanned the dark upper rafters of the warehouse as they moved deeper into the shadows. He noticed the wires first. They were thin, almost invisible threads of copper running along the underside of a main support beam.
His stomach dropped into a cold, hollow pit.
“Buck—” Sam started, his voice cracking with sudden urgency.
The explosion swallowed the rest of the word.
A blinding wall of heat slammed into Sam's chest, followed instantly by a concussive force so violent it rattled his teeth. Then, everything dissolved into chaos.
Sam had a vague, detached awareness of his suit's safety protocols kicking in, his wings deploying automatically behind him to form a shield. Something heavy hit his shoulder with a sickening crunch. Something else struck his ribs, stealing his breath.
The world spun sideways.
His back crashed against the concrete floor hard enough to knock every bit of air completely from his lungs. For half a second, there was absolute, terrifying silence.
Then, the world came rushing back at once.
Blaring fire alarms. A high-pitched ringing in his ears. The crackle of spreading flames.
Through the haze, someone was shouting his name over and over, the voice raw and panicked.
Sam blinked, trying and failing to clear his blurred vision before everything went black.
When Sam jarred awake, the absolute silence was gone, replaced by a jagged, agonizing gasp as his lungs fought for air. The ceiling hadn’t stopped swimming. It just looked darker now, stained with heavy black smoke that drifted lazily through the shattered rafters.
“Sam! Hey, look at me. Open your eyes, Sam.”
Bucky was still there, but his hands weren't careful anymore. The metal fingers were gripping Sam’s good shoulder, anchoring him to the concrete floor while his flesh hand pressed firmly against the side of Sam's neck, tracking a frantic, racing pulse. Bucky's face was completely white beneath the layer of soot and dried blood.
“Stop... yelling,” Sam choked out. His own voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. “Gonna give me... a headache.”
“You already have a headache, you idiot,” Bucky snapped, but the sheer, blinding relief in his eyes ruined the edge. He didn't let go of Sam's shoulder. “Torres, he’s awake. Tell the medics to move their asses.”
Joaquín’s voice cut through the static of Sam’s earpiece, high and breathless with panic. “They're three minutes out, Barnes! Sirens are on. Is he stable? What's the status on the seventh guy?”
“Dead,” Bucky said coldly, not breaking eye contact with Sam. “He didn't make it away from his own blast. Everything else is secure. The warehouse is burning, but we have a clear path to the loading dock.”
Sam tried to lift his head, but a brutal spikes of white-hot agony flared behind his eyes, forcing a sharp groan past his teeth.
“I told you to stay still,” Bucky growled, his hand shifting from Sam’s neck to press firmly against his forehead, physically forcing him to keep his head back. “Your left arm is dislocated, you have at least three broken ribs, and you're concussed enough that you were trying to pick which version of me you liked better thirty seconds ago.”
“The quiet one,” Sam wheezed, his eyes squeezing shut against the pain. “Pick... the quiet one.”
“Not an option today.” Bucky’s voice softened slightly, the tight, defensive barrier finally cracking. He leaned over Sam, using his broad shoulders to block out the falling ash and smoke. “You went black on me, Sam. Don't do that again.”
“Safety protocols,” Sam muttered, his thoughts sluggishly piecing themselves together. “Wings... did they take the brunt of it?”
Bucky glanced down at Sam's back, where the scorched, twisted carbon-fiber frames were locked in a protective, half-collapsed shell around him. “They did their job. They're trashed, but you're alive. Focus on breathing. Shallow breaths.”
“Hurts.”
“I know.” Bucky’s vibranium fingers tightened just a fraction on his shoulder, a steady, grounding weight. “Just lean into it. I’ve got you.”
The distant, wailing scream of emergency sirens finally broke through the crackle of the flames, echoing off the harbor water outside.
Sam let his eyes flutter open again, focusing entirely on the single, solid image of Bucky hovering above him. The second Bucky had finally stopped drifting.
“Told you,” Sam whispered, a weak, tentative smirk straining his lips. “Routine ones... always the dangerous ones.”
Bucky let out a rough, breathy sound that was half a sob and half a laugh, shaking his head as he wiped a smear of soot from his own brow. “Next time, Cap, you're planning the mission.”
***
The first thing Sam noticed when he woke up again was that everything hurt less. The second thing was that his mouth tasted like copper and old wool. The third thing, the one that made him stop breathing for a second, was Bucky.
Bucky was crammed into a vinyl chair beside the hospital bed, fast asleep.
Sam stared at him, waiting for his groggy brain to piece the world back together. Hospital. Right. The warehouse. The explosion. He remembered the heat, the sudden, violent lift off his feet, and Bucky screaming his name. Then nothing.
Sam shifted slightly, testing his limbs. A sharp, burning ache pulled along his ribs. It wasn’t unbearable, just a blunt reminder that getting blown across a concrete floor was generally bad for the human body. Who knew.
He looked back at Bucky. The man looked absolutely terrible. He was still wearing his black tactical pants from the mission and the same dark shirt, though someone had apparently convinced him to take off his armor vest. Dark, dried blood stained one sleeve. His hair was a chaotic mess, and his chin was tucked against his chest, arms locked tight over his torso.
Sam frowned. Bucky hated sleeping in public. Actually, Bucky hated sleeping around almost anyone, let alone in an exposed, sterile room with a window facing a hallway. Yet here he was. Out cold.
Sam glanced toward the window. It was pitch black outside. How long had he been out?
A soft, rhythmic knock came from the door. Sam blinked against the fluorescent glare as a nurse stepped inside. She caught him looking and offered a warm, tired smile.
“Well, there you are,” she said, her voice a quiet murmur.
Sam cleared his throat, or attempted to. It felt like sandpaper. “How long?” he croaked, his voice entirely shot.
“About fourteen hours since you came out of surgery.”
That jolted him. “Surgery?”
“Nothing major, don't panic.” She crossed the room, checking the lines hooked to his arm. “You had some nasty debris lodged near your shoulder. A few stitches, one cracked rib, another severely bruised, and a mild concussion. Your left shoulder took the brunt of the impact.”
Sam slowly looked down. His left arm was tightly immobilized against his chest. He let out a long, pathetic sigh. “Well. There goes my tennis career.”
The nurse smiled faintly, adjusting his blanket. “Try not to move too much, comedian.”
“Story of my life.”
She grabbed a small penlight from her pocket. “Any nausea?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“A little.”
“Headache?”
“Yeah,” Sam admitted, wincing slightly as she checked his pupils. “Like a drum circle in my skull.”
She nodded, completely unfazed. “Expected, given the concussion.”
Sam’s eyes drifted past her shoulder, landing on the dead weight in the chair. “He okay?”
The nurse followed his gaze, her expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “Your husband?”
Sam stopped. The drum circle in his head instantly vanished. Silence stretched across the room. His brain, despite being violently concussed, immediately latched onto that single, specific word.
“My what?” Sam whispered.
The nurse looked back at him, blinking. “Your husband.”
Sam stared at her. Then, very slowly, he turned his head to look at Bucky. Bucky remained utterly asleep, snoring softly, completely oblivious to the universe spinning off its axis.
Sam looked back at the nurse. “Him?”
Her brow furrowed, a flicker of professional worry crossing her face. “Yes? The man who brought you in?”
Sam’s mouth twitched. A dangerous, intoxicating thought bloomed in his mind. He shouldn’t. He absolutely, 100% should not do this. He had recently been hit by a bomb. Surely his catastrophically poor judgment could be blamed on medical trauma.
“You mean James?” Sam asked, his voice dripping with sudden, solemn gravity.
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
“My husband.”
“Yes.”
The grin arrived before Sam could physically stop it. He bit his inside cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “Oh.”
The nurse looked genuinely concerned now. “Is that… not correct? The intake form said—”
Sam looked back at Bucky. His husband. Jesus Christ. This was a gift straight from the heavens. This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him.
“No, no,” Sam said, putting on his best, deeply devoted face. “No, that’s him. That’s my Jimmy.”
The nurse relaxed, letting out a breath. “Oh, good. He’s been beside himself. Very worried.”
“Has he?”
“He hasn’t left your side once,” she said, checking the IV drip. “Except when the surgeons literally forced him out of the room. He was pacing the halls like a caged wolf.”
Sam pressed his lips together. Something small, heavy, and unexpectedly warm settled right beneath his bruised ribs. He promptly ignored it. That was a problem for future Sam. Right now, he had a much more urgent, sacred duty to fulfill.
Namely, ruining Bucky’s entire day.
“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Sam sighed wistfully. “He’s a nester.”
“He was very insistent about being here the exact moment you woke up.”
Sam’s gaze softened just a fraction, looking at the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “Yeah. He's an idiot.”
The nurse finished up, stepping back toward the door. “He really should go home and get some proper sleep tonight. He’s going to ruin his back in that chair.”
Sam studied the sleeping super-soldier. “I’ll talk to him. Put my foot down.”
“Good luck,” she smiled, reaching for the door handle. “Call if you need anything, Mr. Barnes-Wilson.”
Sam barely kept it together. “Will do.”
The door clicked shut. Sam waited approximately three seconds, letting the silence pool in the room. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath that hurt his ribs, and pitched his voice into a soft, drippingly sweet register.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Nothing. Bucky didn't even twitch.
Sam smiled wider, leaning as far forward as the wires allowed. “Baby.”
Bucky stirred, his brow furrowing. Sam almost choked on his own laughter.
“Oh, honey. Wake up.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped open. It happened with terrifying, soldier-honed speed. One second he was dead to the world, the next he was completely alert. His head snapped up, his shoulders squaring, his gaze instantly locking onto the bed.
Every ounce of tension in Bucky's face crumpled, replaced by raw, exhausting relief.
“You’re awake,” Bucky breathed, his voice rough and thick with sleep. He rushed to stand up, moving toward the bed. “Sam, you’re awake.”
There was so much raw, unshielded relief bleeding through Bucky's voice that Sam nearly forgot the joke entirely. The sheer weight of it pressed into the small space between their chairs, heavy and real.
Nearly.
“Of course I am, darling,” Sam purred, fluttering his eyelashes. “I couldn't keep my beautiful husband waiting.”
Bucky froze completely mid-stride. The profound relief vanished from his face, instantly replaced by a look of profound cognitive dissonance. “...What did you just call me?”
Sam beamed, his smile wide and sharp despite his split lip. “Did you sleep well, sweet pea?”
Bucky stared at him, his blue eyes narrowing to tiny, suspicious slits. He didn't move a single muscle, acting as if Sam were a bomb that might detonate if he made a sudden sound.
“How much morphine did they give you?” Bucky asked, his voice deadpan.
“I don’t know,” Sam said, tilting his head back against the pillows. “Enough to make me appreciate my deeply devoted, loving husband.”
Bucky’s face went entirely, beautifully blank.
Sam lost it. The sheer absurdity of the look on Bucky's face broke through his restraint, and a loud, bark of laughter escaped his throat.
He immediately, violently regretted it.
“Oh, God—” Sam gasped, the laughter instantly cutting off into a sharp wheeze. A white-hot spike of agony flared through his chest as his cracked rib protested the sudden movement.
Bucky shot to his feet, his metal hand making a sharp clack against the armrest of the vinyl chair. “Don’t—Jesus, Sam, stop laughing.”
Sam buried his good hand into his side, trying to hold his chest together, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes from a mix of pain and amusement. “This is… oh god, it hurts… but this is so worth it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bucky demanded, hovering over the bed like an anxious, broad-shouldered gargoyle.
Before Sam could manage a coherent breath to answer, the hospital door clicked open.
Perfect, divine timing.
The nurse stepped back inside, holding a small plastic cup of ice water with a flexible straw. “I thought you might want a drink—oh, good, you’re awake too.”
Bucky slowly turned his head to look at her, his shoulders still tense, his entire posture radiating defensive confusion.
The nurse offered Bucky a warm, knowing smile and extended the cup toward him. “Could you help your husband sit up just a little bit? He shouldn't strain those ribs.”
Sam bit the absolute life out of the inside of his cheek, burying his face slightly into the pillow to hide the tremors of laughter threatening to wreck his chest again.
Very slowly, Bucky’s head turned back around. His eyes locked onto Sam’s.
Sam watched the realization arrive in real-time. It was like watching a train derail in slow motion. First came pure, unadulterated confusion. Then, a terrible, creeping understanding. Finally, absolute, cold horror.
Sam smiled up at him, wide and sugary sweet. “Please, baby? Just a little bit?”
Bucky’s jaw literally dropped. He looked at Sam, then at the nurse, then back at Sam.
Sam was going to die right here in this bed. Not from an explosive device, and not from blood loss. He was going to suffocate because he couldn't breathe through the sheer joy of this moment.
“We’re not married,” Bucky said. His voice was flat, loud, and entirely devoid of inflection.
The nurse blinked, her hand dropping slightly with the cup.
Sam immediately put on his best, deeply wounded puppy-dog face. “James.”
Bucky turned a lethal glare directly on him. “Don’t.”
“After everything we’ve been through?” Sam whimpered softly, looking toward the nurse for backup.
“You’re concussed,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Shut up.”
“For better or for worse, Buck.”
“Sam.”
“In sickness and in health.”
“I will literally unplug your IV.”
The nurse looked absolutely mortified, her cheeks turning a bright, flustered pink as she held the water cup like a shield. “I am so, so sorry! I didn't mean to pry, it's just… your paperwork explicitly said—”
“What paperwork?” Bucky interrupted, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he used when interrogating bad guys in shipping containers.
She glanced nervously down at the digital chart in her hands. “The emergency contact form. From the intake file.”
Sam frowned. The amusement evaporated from his face for a fraction of a second. That part actually caught him off guard. “My emergency contact?”
“Yes,” the nurse said, checking the screen. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
Bucky shifted his gaze back to Sam. Something subtle changed in his expression. The annoyance didn't entirely vanish, but it softened around the edges, replaced by a quiet, heavy stillness.
“You put me down as your emergency contact?” Bucky asked quietly.
Sam suddenly found the blue waffle-weave hospital blanket over his legs to be the most fascinating piece of textile work in the modern world. He picked at a loose thread with his good hand. “Yeah.”
“You have a sister, Sam.”
“Sarah has kids,” Sam muttered, his voice dropping its playful edge.
“So?”
“So she doesn’t need people from a military hospital calling her at three in the morning every single time I get blown across a warehouse,” Sam said, shoving his shoulder back into the pillow. He shrugged carefully, keeping his ribs stable. “Besides. You’re usually already there anyway.”
The room went completely quiet. The joke entirely evaporated for one strange, heavy second. Bucky looked down at him, his blue eyes searching Sam's face, unreadable and intensely focused. It was an expression Sam couldn't quite decipher, which was rare for them. Usually, he could read Bucky like a large, grumpy book.
The nurse cleared her throat, clearly desperate to break the sudden, thick tension in the air. “Well. Regardless, the form lists your relationship to the patient as… partner.”
Sam blinked.
Bucky closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath through his nose.
The memory hit Sam like a splash of cold water. “Oh.”
Bucky opened his eyes again, fixing Sam with a look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. “Oh?”
Sam’s mouth started twitching again, the humor rushing back to save him from the awkwardness. “I think I know exactly what happened.”
“You think?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms.
“They asked for the relationship status on the quick-form.”
“And you wrote partner?”
“Mission partner!” Sam defended himself, lifting his good hand in a placating gesture. “In my defense, I was filling out about forty pages of government-mandated healthcare paperwork while riding in the back of a bouncing tactical vehicle. I ran out of room on the line.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Bucky said, his voice dangerously calm. “Somewhere deep in the archives of the United States healthcare system, we are legally bound in holy matrimony because you got lazy filling out a box.”
“Pretty much, yeah. Congratulations, by the way. I'm a delight.”
Bucky slowly looked up toward the ceiling tiles, as if asking the universe for strength. “Unbelievable.”
Sam glanced over at the nurse, who was currently biting her lip so hard it was turning white, her shoulders trembling as she tried to maintain her professional decorum. “You see what I have to put up with? No romance. Just judgment.”
She let out a tiny, muffled squeak of a laugh.
Bucky pointed a stern finger at the bed. “You don’t get to talk.”
“Hostile marriage,” Sam whispered loudly to the nurse.
“We are not married!” Bucky barked.
“Not with that attitude, we aren't.”
The nurse completely gave up. She set the water cup down on the bedside table and practically fled the room, the door clicking shut behind her just as a loud burst of laughter finally escaped her.
The second the latch caught, Bucky whirled back toward the bed, looming over Sam with his hands on his hips. “You told her it was true.”
Sam grinned while shrugging, the expression pulling sharply at the stitches in his shoulder. “Obviously.”
“Why?” Bucky’s voice was a low rumble of sheer disbelief. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it was funny.”
“It’s not funny, Sam.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“No,” Bucky flatly refused, his jaw tightening.
“It’s a lot funny,” Sam countered, leaning his head back into the thin hospital pillow.
Bucky dragged both hands over his face, inhaling deeply as if trying to summon the patience of a saint. Sam watched him through half-lidded eyes, entirely captivated by the performance. Something about the whole situation was deeply entertaining. Something else about it was—
Well. He wasn’t touching that. Not while pump-fed on hospital narcotics. Probably not while sober, either. He buried that thought deep down beneath his rib cage, right next to the dull ache of the explosion.
Bucky dropped his hands and sank heavily back into the squeaking vinyl chair. “You’re impossible.”
“You stayed fourteen hours,” Sam said softly.
Bucky went entirely still.
The words hung in the sterile air between them. Sam immediately realized he’d said it differently than he had intended. The teasing, mocking cadence was completely gone. In its place was something raw, heavy, and a little too honest.
Bucky looked away, his eyes tracking the erratic green lines pulsing on the heart monitor. “You got hit pretty hard.”
“So?”
“So I stayed.”
“Buck.”
“What?” Bucky snapped, though there was no real bite to it. He kept his eyes locked on the wall.
Sam studied him in the dim light. Now that the adrenaline of the joke was fading, the details came into sharp focus. There was a nasty, purplish bruise forming along Bucky’s jawline. His boots were scuffed, his clothes still reeked of smoke and burnt metal, and he hadn't so much as washed the grime from his hands. He had apparently stood his ground against an entire floor of medical staff just to occupy a terrible chair.
The warmth beneath Sam’s ribs returned, blooming outward. It had absolutely nothing to do with the injury or the medication.
“You could’ve gone home,” Sam murmured. “Showered. Slept in a bed.”
Bucky’s expression tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “No.”
Sam waited, giving him room to speak. Bucky didn’t elaborate.
“Why not?” Sam pressed gently.
Bucky finally looked back at him. For a long, quiet second, neither of them said a word. The steady, rhythmic beep of the monitor filled the gap. Then, Bucky gave a dismissive, one-shouldered shrug. “Someone had to make sure you woke up.”
Sam smiled faintly, the warmth settling deep. “You worried about me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“You’re annoying when you’re unconscious,” Bucky muttered, steepling his fingers under his chin.
“I wasn’t even talking.”
“Exactly. It was unsettling.”
Sam laughed softly. This time he kept it small and shallow, protecting his chest so his ribs wouldn’t punish him for the amusement.
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the corner of his lips lifting just a fraction of a millimeter. There it was. Sam knew that tell. He’d spent enough time around the man to recognize the exact moment Bucky stopped being genuinely miserable.
“You were terrified,” Sam nudged.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Admit it. You love me.”
Instead of answering, Bucky reached across the small gap and grabbed the plastic cup of ice water from the tray. “You’re dehydrated. Your voice sounds like a lawnmower.”
“Classic deflection.”
“Drink,” Bucky commanded, holding the straw near Sam's face.
“Bossy husband.”
Bucky glared, a silent promise of violence in his eyes, but he didn't pull the water away. Sam obediently leaned forward and took a sip. His throat truly did feel like sandpaper, and the cold water was a massive relief. Bucky didn't say a word as he helped raise the cup, his large hand cupping the bottom of Sam's wrist, careful, steady, and remarkably gentle.
When Sam finished, Bucky set the cup back down and settled back into his corner. Sam sank into the mattress, letting his eyes flutter shut as a comfortable, quiet moment drifted over the room. Almost entirely comfortable.
The heavy weight of exhaustion was creeping back in, pulling at his eyelids. The medication was doing its job, wrapping his brain in thick cotton. He heard the vinyl chair groan as Bucky shifted his weight.
“You staying?”
The question slipped out of Sam’s mouth before his conscious mind could block it. He held his breath during the brief silence that followed.
Then came Bucky's voice, quiet and steady: “Yeah.”
Sam opened his eyes just enough to look across the gap. Bucky had crossed his arms again, tucking his chin back down toward his chest, settling back into his fortress.
“You really should go home, Buck,” Sam murmured, even though the thought of the empty room made his chest feel hollow.
“You just asked if I was staying.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain a concussion.”
“Rude.”
Bucky didn't look up, his eyes already closed. “Go to sleep, Sam.”
Sam watched him for another second, taking in the stubborn set of his shoulders. A soft smile broke across his face.
“Night, honey.”
Bucky didn’t even open his eyes this time, but the response was immediate. “Goodnight, Sam.”
Sam turned his head toward the dark window, watching the distant city lights flicker through the glass. He was still smiling when the darkness finally pulled him under.
***
Bucky was still there when Sam woke up again. And again after that.
By the second afternoon, Sam had accepted two absolute universal truths. First, hospital food was a legitimate crime against humanity. Second, Bucky Barnes apparently had no intention of leaving his side until the heat death of the universe.
“You know,” Sam said, poking a plastic fork suspiciously at a gray mound that claimed to be mashed potatoes, “most husbands bring flowers. Or chocolate. At least a magazine.”
Bucky sat near the window, bathed in the pale afternoon light, squinting at something on his phone. “Most patients don’t spend twenty minutes aggressively arguing with a physical therapist because she told them they aren’t allowed to fly for six weeks.”
“She was disrespectful, Buck. Her tone was accusatory.”
“She told you your shoulder needs time to heal or it’s going to permanently freeze up.”
“Exactly,” Sam said, gesturing with his fork. “Negative energy. I don't need that in my recovery space.”
Bucky lowered his phone, fixing Sam with a flat, unamused stare. “You tore two ligaments.”
“Minor detail.”
“You literally needed a surgeon to drill into your bone.”
“Very minor detail.”
“You were dead to the world for fourteen hours, Sam.”
Sam pointed his fork directly at him, his chin lifting. “And yet, here I am. Flourishing.”
“Unfortunately,” Bucky muttered, though the corner of his mouth gave a traitorous little twitch before he looked back down at his screen.
Sam grinned, leaning back into his pillows. It had been like this all morning. Sam poked, Bucky resisted. Sam poked harder, Bucky threw a deadpan insult back. It was comfortable. It was their normal.
Except, beneath the banter, the baseline had shifted. Every now and then, Sam would catch Bucky looking over at him when he thought Sam was distracted. It wasn't a casual glance. It was a hyper-focused, intensive scan. Just checking the monitors, checking Sam's breathing, looking for reassurance that Sam was actually, truly still there. And every single time Sam caught him doing it, Bucky would immediately snap his gaze away, clearing his throat or pretending to text.
Sam had decided not to mention it. Yet. He was saving that ammunition for later.
A crisp, double-knock rattled the door frame, and Dr. Harrington stepped inside, trailing a scent of coffee and carrying a sleek silver tablet. “Mr. Wilson. Good afternoon.”
“That’s me,” Sam said, tossing his plastic fork onto the untouched tray. “Tell me some good news, Doc.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Beautiful. Ready to tackle the world.”
From the corner, Bucky snorted loudly.
The doctor smiled politely, tapping the screen of his tablet. “Well, I’ve reviewed your latest scans and your blood work. The inflammation is down, and the stitches look incredibly clean. Everything looks good.”
Sam perked up instantly, his good shoulder squaring. “Great. Excellent. So I can leave. Let's get the paperwork rolling.”
“Possibly tomorrow.”
“Today,” Sam countered.
“Tomorrow,” the doctor repeated, completely unfazed by the Captain America charm.
“Look, Doc, I’m Captain America. I have a high-tech vibranium suit and a very busy schedule.”
“And I’m your doctor,” Harrington replied smoothly, not even looking up from his tablet. “And my word dictates whether security lets you out the front door.”
Sam let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping back. Bucky looked deeply, profoundly pleased by this interaction. Absolute traitor.
“There are a few strict conditions for your release,” the doctor continued, his tone turning thoroughly professional. “You’ll need someone with you for at least the first forty-eight hours after discharge to monitor for any delayed concussive symptoms. No strenuous activity. No lifting anything over five pounds with the left arm. Absolutely no flight training. You’ll also need someone to assist you with the initial passive rehabilitation exercises once the swelling goes down on Friday.”
Sam nodded, his mind already mapping out the logistics. “Fine, fine. I can manage that.”
“Do you have someone who can stay with you at your place?” Dr. Harrington asked, preparing to log the discharge care plan.
Sam opened his mouth to answer. He had plenty of options. Sarah, obviously, although the mere thought of making her drag the boys all the way across Louisiana just because he’d gotten himself blown up made him feel incredibly guilty. Joaquín would probably volunteer in a heartbeat, but the kid was already buried under tactical reports. Maybe—
“I’ll do it.”
The words came from the window. Sam turned his head so fast his neck popped. Bucky hadn’t even looked up from his phone. He was still casually scrolling with his thumb, his posture completely relaxed.
The doctor nodded, tapping the tablet. “All right. Name for the file?”
Sam frowned, his competitive instincts immediately flaring up. “Hold on. Wait a minute.”
Now Bucky finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“You’re just volunteering to move into my house?”
“For two days, Sam. It’s forty-eight hours. I think I can survive the wilderness of your spare room.”
“You hate my couch,” Sam pointed out.
“I hate your taste in throw pillows. They have no structural integrity.”
“You literally told me three weeks ago that my couch was bad for your lower back.”
“Your couch is bad for humanity,” Bucky shot back, his voice smooth and entirely even. “It belongs in a landfill.”
“So where exactly are you planning on sleeping, James?”
Bucky shrugged, pocketing his phone. “I’ll figure it out. Floor is fine.”
Sam stared at him, trying to drill holes through the man's stubborn skull. Bucky stared right back, his blue eyes deadpan and unyielding. The doctor, wisely detecting the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure, pretended to be intensely fascinated by a graph on his digital chart.
“You don’t have to do that,” Sam said, his voice dropping low, losing the sarcastic edge. He meant it. Bucky didn't owe him his spine or his comfort.
Bucky’s expression changed slightly. The guarded, soldier facade slipped away for a fraction of a second, leaving something deeply earnest behind. “I know.”
Those two words landed significantly harder than they should have. They echoed in the quiet space of the hospital room, carrying the weight of the warehouse, the explosion, and the fourteen hours of waiting.
Sam looked at him for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he finally let out a soft breath and nodded. “Okay. But if you break my couch, you're buying me a new one.”
Bucky nodded back, a silent agreement sealed between them. “Deal.”
The doctor continued talking, his voice fading into the background as he rambled on about medication schedules, pharmacy locations, and follow-up appointments. Sam only heard about half of it. His attention was locked on the fact that Bucky had already pulled his phone back out. He wasn't scrolling anymore. He was meticulously typing out notes, logging the doctor's exact words about dosage times and physical therapy exercises.
Of course he was.
Sam leaned his head back against the pillow, watching the sunlight catch the sharp line of Bucky's jaw. He tried very, very hard to suppress the massive grin tugging at his lips.
His husband was apparently taking him home.