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The guy’s name is James, which feels like a cruel twist of fate.
Bucky probably deserves it.
They call him Jamie. He’s handsome. Steel-blue eyes, sandy blond hair. “Sam has a type,” Sarah says, teasing, and they all laugh about it together, out on the pier, watching the sun set over the water.
Jamie is from New Orleans. He, Sam and Sarah go way back; they met when they were young, lost touch over the years, reconnected after the Blip. Sometimes it’s like the three of them speak in a language that Bucky doesn’t understand. Names and places he doesn’t know, references that go over his head. Inside jokes they do their best to explain to him, but you had to be there, really.
Remember when, one of them will say, already cracking up, remember that one time when—
Bucky leans back on his metal hand, sips his beer. Listens. Chuckles in all the right places. Watches Jamie’s easy smile.
Watches Sam’s face light up in return.
Bucky’s apartment in Brooklyn always seems small and quiet compared to the Wilson’s house.
Painfully small. Painfully quiet.
Even so, he figures it’s time for him to stop spending so much time down in Louisiana.
Sam isn’t perfect.
Bucky has read the think pieces. He has seen the over-the-top social media posts by people who adore their new Captain America. They call him a man without faults. A perfect angel.
But Sam isn’t perfect.
For one thing, he’s stubborn. He can be impulsive, impatient. He’s too loyal for his own good, and he has a bit of a savior complex. He drinks orange juice straight from the carton.
Bucky knows all of that.
People shouldn’t be putting Sam on a pedestal. It’s not just dangerous—it’s a long way down, and there are plenty of assholes who’d love to see him fall—but it’s also unfair to Sam. He isn’t perfect; no one is.
But he’s a good man, a great man, and he deserves so much better than Bucky.
Jamie seems like a good enough start.
“Jamie asked me out on a date,” Sam says, a month or so after Jamie showed up for Sunday family dinner for the first time.
Bucky swallows, says, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam says.
“Took him long enough,” Bucky says, keeping his tone light. He bumps their shoulders together for good measure. “You gonna take him up on it?”
“I’m not sure,” Sam says after a pause. “It doesn’t seem like the right time. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m kind of a big deal right now.”
“You can’t put your entire life on hold for the Captain America gig,” Bucky tells him. “Look at where it got Steve before the two of you met and you took pity on his sorry ass.”
“I’m not putting my entire life on hold,” Sam says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just, I don’t know. You and I have our hands full training Torres.”
“That’s a lousy excuse and you know it,” Bucky says. “Baby Falcon doesn’t need us to babysit him twenty-four seven.”
“Yeah,” Torres says over their earpieces. “I’ll be fine, Cap.”
“Give me another barrel roll, kid,” Sam tells him. “Go on.”
“Jamie is nice,” Bucky says, because he can’t deny it—Jamie is nice. Kind. He brought a plate of homemade cookies to Sunday family dinner that first time, and never once stared at Bucky’s vibranium arm. “You should go for it.”
“You really think so?” Sam asks, looking at him.
“Yeah, man,” Bucky says. He fixes his gaze on Torres, high up in the sky, sunlight glinting off his wings. It hurts Bucky’s eyes. He blinks, rapidly. “You should be with somebody who can make you happy.”
Bucky gradually begins to stay away from the Wilson family for longer stretches of time.
Gives Sam and Jamie the space they deserve.
He strikes up a friendship with Leah. Resumes his weekly dinners at Izzy with Yori, even though things are different between them now. Downloads another dating app and then deletes it again.
When he can’t sleep at night, which is often, he patrols the streets. He roughs up would-be muggers, just a little, and shadows people who are walking alone to make sure they get home safe. Just another service provided by your friendly neighborhood ex-Winter Soldier who still can’t quite figure out how to lay his ghosts to rest.
He’s trying, though, and apparently that’s what matters.
After teaching Torres just about every knife flip and hand-to-hand combat technique he knows, Bucky takes some time off.
He goes back to Europe. Travels to places where people aren’t obsessed with American culture, where either no one knows who he is—who he used to be—or they don’t care. Either they’ve never heard of the Winter Soldier, of Sergeant Barnes, or they just don’t give a shit.
There are a lot more of those places than the media would have him believe.
It’s comforting to know that the world doesn’t revolve around the U.S., even if Bucky’s life revolves around Captain America.
In a tiny village on the Croatian coast, he spends the better part of a day glued to his phone, watching a live stream of Captain America negotiating a hostage situation back home. Sam somehow manages to talk the perp down, saving dozens of lives.
Bucky blames the lump in his throat on the fact that he hasn’t eaten in hours.
Proud of you, man, he texts Sam. You ok?
Fucking exhausted, Sam replies almost immediately. But I’m fine. Thanks for checking in on me.
At a news stand in Ljubljana, a headline catches his eye. CAPTAIN AMERICA OFF THE MARKET? Sam Wilson spotted with a hunky mystery man, it says, next to a paparazzi shot of Sam and Jamie walking down the street together. Sam is wearing sunglasses; Jamie is holding two iced coffees. They’re both laughing.
Bucky resists the childish urge to draw a mustache on Jamie’s face.
Jamie is nice, he reminds himself.
How’s Europe? Sam asks.
Bucky sends him a picture of the Adriatic Sea and a cocktail emoji.
The truth is that he’s bored and lonely.
He has sex with men in dark alleys, cheap motel rooms. Seeks out the ones who are willing to be rough about it. To push him to his knees, yank his head back by his hair. Slap their dicks in his face. Come all over him. Make him lick their hands clean, make him beg for it. Fuck him hard, hard enough that everything else falls away and his mind goes blissfully quiet. Hard enough to keep him—all of him—right there, pinned in the moment. Hard enough to force him to be there, really be there, for every obscene second of it.
Bucky likes it like that, always has, and there’s power in it, in knowing that he’s ultimately the one in control here. In knowing that he could overpower them within seconds if he wanted to.
He doesn’t want to.
He begs for it. Licks their hands clean. Closes his eyes.
Doesn’t think of Sam.
Sarah sends him a cute selfie with AJ and Cass. They’re on the boat, smiling broadly into the camera.
We miss your face, the caption says. Cass keeps asking when you’ll be back.
Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek, replies, I miss you all, too.
“Look, I’m sorry to cut short your vacation,” Sam says, voice tinny over the phone, “but I could really use your help on a mission. You in?”
“I’ll catch the next flight home,” Bucky says, because Captain America needs him, and he’d follow Sam anywhere.
Bucky once fell off a moving freight train, into a ravine, and lived to tell the tale. Well, sort of. Eventually.
The Winter Soldier survived seventy years in Hydra’s clutches.
What’s a little grenade blast to the chest compared to all that?
Sam’s voice is frantic as Bucky’s vision goes dark and frayed around the edges. As his heart and lungs scream like a thousand claws are reaching into the spaces between his ribs and tearing them out, bloody strips of tissue catching on splintered bones.
“You idiot,” Sam is yelling. He’s really mad. Bucky has never seen him like this. “Stay awake, stay awake, you idiot, what the hell were you thinking, Bucky, stay with me, no, no, no, don’t close your eyes, why did you, why would you—” and Bucky thinks, watching him fade away, Because I’d die for you a million times if you let me.
“You didn’t have to jump in front of me,” Sam says the moment Bucky blinks his eyes open. “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of me. I could’ve used the shield to contain the blast, you absolute fucking idiot.”
Oh, Bucky thinks.
He didn’t think of that.
Sam has a nasty bruise around his eye and angry red scratches on his cheek. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.
Bucky feels bad.
“Did you even stop to consider what it would be like for me to watch you damn near get blown to pieces?” Sam asks. “I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, thanks.”
Now Bucky feels worse.
“You got seriously injured. The doctors say you’re not out of the woods yet. Please make it through so I can strangle you myself.”
That’s funny. Sam is funny.
“You’re funny,” Bucky tries to say, but there’s pressure around his mouth. Huh. He tries to reach for it, but he can barely lift his hand.
Mask.
Restraints.
No.
Oh, god, no. Not again.
He doesn’t want the mind treatment.
He doesn’t want to lose his memories.
He doesn’t want to forget Sarah, Cass, AJ, Leah, Yori, Torres, Steve, Sam.
Sam.
He doesn’t want to forget Sam.
He tries to reach for Sam, but his arms are restrained by his sides.
Now there’s more pressure on his cheeks, his forehead. The mind crown. It’s the mind crown, touching down, and Bucky wants to struggle, tries to struggle—he can take them, he’s not under their control this time, he doesn’t want to forget, oh god no not again—but his body just won’t move.
He’s trapped.
They have trapped him inside his body again, and it’s different this time, worse, so much worse, because he’s still right here. He’s right here and he can’t.
He can’t breathe.
A broken sound claws its way out of his throat.
He doesn’t want to forget.
“Bucky,” Sam’s voice says, over the roar of the memory suppressing machine, the beeping of the monitors, “Bucky, Bucky, hey, Buck, look at me,” and the mind crown is soft against his skin, radiating warmth instead of administering electric shocks that sear through him, burn his memories right out of his brain. “You’re sedated. You’re confused. But you’re safe. It’s okay. Don’t be scared, all right? Look at me. You’re safe.”
Bucky tries to shake his head, tries to shake off the mask, he doesn’t want to have to wear the mask again, doesn’t—
“It’s an oxygen mask,” Sam is saying, “it’s just an oxygen mask, it’s helping you breathe, Bucky, just breathe,” and that’s a lie because it’s Sam’s voice helping him breathe, Sam’s hands on his face helping him breathe, Sam helping him breathe.
“Will it scar?” Cass asks, voice small.
“I don’t know, buddy,” Bucky says gently. He pushes himself up a little, biting back a grunt. “You guys know I got the super-soldier serum, right? Like Uncle Steve? It means I heal differently than other people. Faster. But I was hurt pretty badly, so I don’t know. It might. And it’s fine if it does. There’s nothing wrong with scars. They just tell the story of what you’ve lived through. That’s all.”
Cass is biting his lip, but he nods.
“Do you have a vibranium ribcage now?” AJ asks.
“Nope,” Bucky says. “I managed to keep all my own bones.” This time.
“Oh,” AJ says, disappointed.
“Boys,” Sarah says sharply from somewhere behind the couch. “You know Bucky needs to rest. Go play outside or something.” She comes into view as she leans over Bucky, tousles his hair. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just used up all my words for the day,” Bucky says, sinking back into the cushions. He’s winded. “Kids are worth it, though.”
“No more talking, then,” Sarah says. “You need to heal. I still think you should be upstairs in Sam’s room, but you’re just as goddamn stubborn as he is.”
“I like it down here,” Bucky says. “I like the view—”
“—when I’m in the room, yeah, yeah,” Sarah says, smiling. “You old flirt.”
Bucky is getting predictable. He needs to step up his game. Maybe once he catches his breath. And his ribs stop feeling like John Walker bashed them in with Sam’s shield.
He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, Sarah is placing a steaming mug on the coffee table.
“Chicken broth,” she says when she sees that he’s awake. “Gramma’s recipe.”
“You’re my favorite Wilson sibling,” Bucky says. “I ever tell you that?”
“I said no more talking,” Sarah says. “And we both know that’s not true.”
“You’re one of my favorite Wilson siblings,” Bucky says, his voice giving out on the last word.
Sarah pats his knee. “No more talking now, honey,” she says. “All right?”
Bucky nods. Lets his eyes drift shut again.
The wound in his chest throbs.
Bucky is sitting on the porch with Sam when he learns that Sam and Jamie are no longer dating.
“We wanted different things,” Sam says. He takes a swig of his beer. “He wanted to take our relationship to the next level.” He leans back in his chair, legs spread, resting the bottle on his knee. “And I wanted you.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to filter into Bucky’s brain. He says, “What?”
“You,” Sam says. He’s looking at Bucky with a calm expression on his face. “I want you.”
Bucky feels a stab of pain in his chest, sharp enough to make him hunch over.
“Don’t,” he says, voice rough, blood pounding in his ears. His face is burning hot with humiliation. “Don’t—please don’t mess with me like this. Not like this.”
“Come on, man,” Sam says, frowning. “You know me better than that. You know I’d never mess with you on something like this.”
It’s true. Bucky knows he wouldn’t.
“Sam,” Bucky says, “I can’t…”
It feels like his ribcage is about to crack open again. He presses a hand to it. Feels his heart beat nauseatingly fast through the bandages, through the shirt he’s wearing—one of Sam’s shirts. All his own clothes are in the laundry.
“I don’t get it,” Sam says. “You practically pushed me into Jamie’s arms. But then you jump in front of a grenade launcher for me and tell me you’d die for me a million times. That’s dramatic, even for you, and I’m pretty sure it crosses the line from subtext to text.”
Bucky rubs his chest. “I said that out loud, huh,” he says.
“You did,” Sam says. “And it made me wonder. Why did you tell me to date Jamie?”
Bucky needs to get out of here, away from this conversation, but he knows his legs can barely support his weight. Sam half-carried him here to get some fresh air. He probably wouldn’t even make it off the porch, let alone across the yard.
He’s trapped.
Sam is looking at him, expecting an answer.
The Winter Soldier didn’t always have to make his victims suffer. In the absence of specific orders, he always went for the quickest kill: a single shot to the head.
“I’m damaged goods,” Bucky says, rubbing his chest. “Jamie isn’t. He’s nice. Uncomplicated.”
Sam nods slowly. Doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not…” Bucky takes a breath. “You deserve better. Than me.”
“You know you’re not the only one with problems, right?” Sam says mildly. “We all have our own demons.”
Not like me, Bucky thinks. Not like mine. He clenches his metal hand to a fist. The fist of Hydra. The fist that shaped a century.
He had no choice, but he did it.
“You’ve been through a lot, Buck. More than most people,” Sam says. “But everyone is messed up in their own way. Do you think that means they’re not worthy of love?”
It's a rhetorical question, of course.
But Bucky isn’t talking about everyone. He’s talking about Sam, and Jamie, and himself.
Bucky isn’t worthy of Sam’s love. He can’t give Sam what he needs, what he deserves.
He rubs his chest again. This conversation is making him feel sick to his stomach.
“Look,” Sam says, “I’m not gonna try to prove you wrong. I won’t be able to convince you that you’re worth it. That’s something you’re gonna have to work through yourself.”
Bucky is breaking out in sweat. There are spots dancing before his eyes.
“Sam,” he says.
“But what I can do is tell you that I don’t want nice and uncomplicated,” Sam says. “I want you.”
Bucky’s hand feels wet.
“Sam?” he says as darkness floods in.
“You’ve burst your stitches,” Sam’s voice says, very close, “damn it, Bucky, why didn’t you say something?” He sounds pissed.
Bucky’s breath catches in his throat as Sam hoists him up and ducks under his arm. “Not inside,” he manages, because he doesn’t want to get blood on Sarah’s couch. Or her floor. He draws the line at getting blood on her porch.
“Oh, but you’re fine with bleeding all over my clothes, huh?” Sam says, like he’s reading Bucky’s mind. He does that a lot. “How do you feel about bleeding all over my passenger seat? Because you are going back to the hospital, my friend.”
God, no. Not the hospital again.
“Just put a few staples in me,” Bucky says. “I don’t want to miss the cookout.”
His head lolls back.
“You are not bleeding all over the cookout,” Sam says, “and I’m not putting staples in you, what the fuck.”
“Worth a try,” Bucky mumbles.
He doesn’t pass out again on the drive to the hospital, even though he isn’t trying to stay conscious. He can feel the wind in his hair, Sam’s hand on his knee. The wind in his hair is nice, but he doesn’t know how to feel about Sam’s hand on his knee. It feels too right, which makes it feel wrong.
Damaged goods. Literally and figuratively.
He keeps his eyes shut, tries to float away. Unpin himself from the moment.
At the hospital, there are bright lights. Needles. Voices. Many hands. The lights and the needles hurt, but the voices are kind and the hands are gentle.
The doctors and nurses call him Mr. Barnes. They work around Sam—who gets to stay in the room even though he is totally in the way, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding Bucky’s hand—and keep telling Bucky what they’re going to do before doing it.
I’m going to touch your arm now, Mr. Barnes.
Here’s that IV with fluids we talked about. Just a little sting. That’s it.
This will take the edge off the pain.
You’re doing great.
I’m administering a local anesthetic now.
They mean well, but it’s exhausting.
“Take the edge off, my ass,” he says after a while, because no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t seem to pass out again. “What happened to those good drugs you people had me on last time I was here?”
“They weren’t all that good,” Sam says. “You kind of freaked out on them. Remember?”
“Eh,” Bucky says. “Vaguely. Just knock me out. I can take it.”
“I’m not sure I can,” Sam says, squeezing his hand.
Bucky cracks one eye open. Sam does not look like he’s kidding.
“Wanna bang my head against the wall until I pass out?” Bucky asks him. “I’d do it myself, but I can’t even sit up.”
Sam gives him a look.
“Or choke me? You could choke me,” Bucky says. “Please choke me.”
“He’s delirious from blood loss,” Sam tells a nurse. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Bucky feels pretty great, actually. Maybe these drugs are doing something for him after all.
“Just until I pass out,” Bucky insists. “C’mon, do me a favor. It’s the least you can do. We all know I’m in this situation because of you.”
“Hey,” Sam says. “Don’t put this on me.”
“We all saw the video on the news, Cap,” Bucky says. “I heroically saved your life and almost died in the process. Everyone here can attest to that.”
“I heroically saved your life after that. Let’s call it even.”
“Ugh,” Bucky says. “Fine.”
Sam is smiling at him.
“What?” Bucky asks, suspicious. “What are you smiling at me for?”
“I missed you,” Sam says. “I missed this.”
“What even are you saying?” Bucky says. “This is the first time you’ve ever held my hand in a hospital room while some doctor is sewing my chest back together.”
He winks at the doctor, who smiles at him as well. Everyone here is smiling at him. This whole hospital thing is growing on him, he thinks.
“I missed talking to you,” Sam says. “Why’d you have to run off to Europe?”
“I was pining,” Bucky tells him. “You were dating Jamie.”
“You told me to date Jamie,” Sam says, which is fair. “And I didn’t even know you liked me.” Again, fair. “God, you really need to get your shit together.” Hurtful, but fair.
“Jamie looks like Steve,” Bucky says. “Before he looked like my grandpa. Steve, I mean, not Jamie. And Riley. He looks like Riley. Jamie, I mean, not Grandpa Steve. Jamie also looks like Riley.”
“Sure does, buddy.”
“You have a type,” Bucky says.
“Stubborn, emotionally constipated dumbasses who bicker with me like their life depends on it,” Sam says. “Yeah. I’m aware.”
Bucky wrinkles his forehead. “Oh,” he says. “You’re talking about me.”
“Yup,” Sam says.
Bucky waits for his chest to hurt, but it’s numb. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts.
He is really enjoying these drugs.
“I am really enjoying these drugs,” he tells Sam.
“I can tell.”
“Sam,” Bucky says, “Sam. I gotta tell you something.”
“What?” Sam says.
“Your hand is really sweaty.”
“So is yours,” Sam says, but he doesn’t let go.
He’s so stubborn. God.
Looks like Bucky will just have to meet him halfway.
But he needs to get his shit together first.
“Hey,” Bucky says to one of the nurses milling around the bed. “You know any good psychiatrists around here?”
Turns out Dr. Raynor was a pretty shitty therapist.
“Told you,” Sam says.
(He did tell Bucky, after their disastrous joint session with her.
“You need a new therapist,” he said.
“Why?” Bucky said. “She’s fine.”
“She’s condescending and kind of mean,” Sam said, “and extremely unprofessional, in my opinion. I never should’ve been in that room with the two of you. Also, she goes through your phone.”
“It’s not my actual phone.”
“Yes, because you got a burner phone after she insisted on checking your messages,” Sam said, “so thank you for proving my point. You clearly don’t feel comfortable enough around her to actually open up to her. Hell, you outright lie to the woman. And has she ever even suggested EMDR or BARF to complement talk therapy?”
“You seem to have a lot of feelings about this,” Bucky said. “I’m touched. Really.”
“She calls you James.”
“James is literally my name.”
“No one calls you James,” Sam said. “I have to suffer through calling a grown man Bucky. Why does she get a pass?”
“You love calling me Bucky,” Bucky said. “Don’t try and deny it.”
“Look,” Sam said, “it’s none of my business, but I’m just saying. You need a better therapist.”)
Doing the work—for real this time—is really, really hard.
He feels worse before he feels better.
A lot worse.
And a lot better.
Recovery, his new therapist tells him, is a lifelong process. Everyone is a work in progress.
Bucky will never be perfect; no one is.
And so he doesn’t keep Sam waiting too long. He doesn’t wait for some magical moment when he feels like he has his shit sufficiently together. When he feels like he has laid enough ghosts to rest.
That, his therapist tells him, is not how it works.
He wakes up gasping, drenched in sweat. His chest throbs and aches as he sucks in breath after breath.
His phone tells him it’s 7 AM.
He sneaks out of the house and goes for a long walk to clear his head.
When he gets back, Sam is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and drinking orange juice straight from the carton.
“That’s disgusting,” Bucky says.
“Want some?” Sam asks, holding it out to him.
Bucky pulls a face. “Sure,” he says. He moves to stand between Sam’s legs, takes the carton, drinks from it.
Sam leans back on his elbows and watches him, chest rising and falling evenly.
Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks,” he says, leaning around Sam to set the carton on the counter.
Sam quirks up an eyebrow.
“Wanna go on a date with me this weekend?” Bucky asks him.
“Sure,” Sam says, straightening up. “I’d love to. Is that why you’re standing close enough for me to count your goddamn eyelashes? To ask me out?”
“Not exactly,” Bucky says.
He takes Sam’s face between his hands. Leans in slowly, watching Sam’s eyes flutter closed. Brushes his lips over Sam’s.
“I’ve been looking forward to this moment,” Sam whispers against his mouth.
Bucky hums and presses their lips together, mouth soft, and Sam kisses him back, hard, like he’s starved for it. Their tongues slide together as Sam buries one hand in Bucky’s hair and runs the other down his back to grab his ass, pull him close. He sucks Bucky’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at it, and that’s when Bucky breaks away from the kiss, rests his forehead against Sam’s. Says, “Oh.”
He feels a little breathless.
“Yeah,” Sam says, with a smug little smile. “That’s what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you,” Bucky says, and kisses him again.
The wound ends up leaving a scar.
Bucky is kind of glad it does.
It means he remembers.