Chapter Text
Sam first catches sight of Barnes in Tanzania. They make eye contact across a market and Barnes’ face is murder. His face is tearing Sam’s wings off and kicking him over the side of a helicarrier. And then Barnes bolts, too fast for Sam to have any hope at all.
After that Sam starts finding post-its, sometimes, when he finds Barnes’ safehouse du jour. The notes are neon pink, bright, like Barnes wants them to glare too, reading: "Almost, not quite" or "You suck at this" or "Try harder". Leave me alone. Come and find me.
They piss Sam off, every single time. He keeps all of them.
*
Sam has only just registered Barnes when his face is pressed up against a rough wall, his arm twisted around up his back. After eight months of breaking into safehouses days or hours or minutes too late, Barnes’ presence is a shock. His hand is tight enough it could snap his bone, just like that. A slight increase in pressure, no effort on Barnes’ part.
Steve Rogers telling him: he’s strong, like me. Are you sure you want to do this? Sure, sure. Sam volunteers. He’s that guy. Maybe not so much now, Barnes’ other hand on the back of his neck, a thumb stroking his nape idly. What is he doing? "What are you doing?"
"I don’t know, what are you?"
Then he’s being spun around and a hand is on his throat instead, and Sam thinks he’ll die here, maybe, in this sad little safehouse and no one knowing where he is; maybe someone finds his body months later, maybe not.
"Are you afraid?" Barnes asks, and it's a curious question, that. He sounds as if he's waiting for an answer.
"No," Sam replies. "Steve said -"
Barnes just shakes him, a little, and Sam's entire body moves under the force. He's felt this, before, on the bridge, on the helicarrier. Steve, offering a hand to help him stand up. All that strength, just under the surface.
"You should stop chasing after me."
"You should stop running, Barnes."
The thumb under his chin forces his head back; effortless, and it should be humiliating, but it’s not. "Watch your six. You’re out of practice, it shows. And my name is Bucky."
Then he’s gone, and Sam feels his fingers around his throat for days afterwards, a bruise like a collar around his neck, unbreaking.
*
What kind of super soldier calls themselves Bucky? It’s a boy’s name, not a man’s. Not the name of an assassin known for more than two dozen kills over the decades, not including collaterals by the hundreds. Not even the name of a sniper with a 90 percent accuracy rate with WWII - vintage - riflery. Sam starts to get a little paranoid, maybe. Is he chasing, or being chased? Bucky could be anywhere, following him. Watching him. Sam hates it; it’s exhilarating. He tells Steve: "I’m sorry, hey, there’s just nothing, he’s a ghost," as the mark around his neck fades away, like it was never there to begin with.
*
And then Bucky just presents himself one day: "This is getting boring, you can take me wherever you’re planning to take me now," like that isn’t the most infuriating way for over a year of cat and mouse to end.
Sam doesn’t trust it for a second. He calls in for evac, anyway.
In a motel room in Morocco, waiting. Sam is on edge, sitting on the bed and waiting for Bucky to emerge from the bathroom. Relieved, somewhat, when he does, shirtless, metal arm gleaming under the dim light. He scoffs at Sam, somehow intuits that Sam thinks he’ll run now, or kill him first. "Did you think I came in just to run away again?"
"You could always change your mind."
"True." His head tilts, contemplative. Sam can’t breathe, and Bucky says, as Sam tightens his hold on his 9mm: "I’ll get to you before you can even unholster it."
"Sure, try," Sam replies, and the not being able to breathe sensation deepens. He pictures Bucky’s hand on his throat, on his cock. Unwanted, surely. Sam’s prepared to die, always, but Bucky’s a man who already died and came back. Who’s more dangerous, here?
Bucky is on him before he can even blink, giving Sam the answer to a question he hadn't asked out loud. He hooks his legs around Sam's ankles, knocking him over and pinning him to the floor. The gun, but Bucky's already got it, tosses it onto the bed while he easily grabs one wrist, then fucking moves Sam's arm along with him to grab the other wrist, and Sam just - can't break free. He tries anyway, and there's a glimmer of pleasure in Bucky's eyes as Sam forgets his training, forgets everything, mind short-circuiting in a haze of rage.
"Just give up," Bucky says, like it's funny to him. Sam stops struggling immediately, starts to breathe in, relaxing into the grip, remembering what he needs to do, but Bucky doesn't take the bait, instead he tightens, adjusts, propping his other hand against the side of the bed.
And then it's over, and Bucky's standing, but pulling Sam up along with him, so Sam has no choice but to scramble for balance, boots scuffing against the floor as he fights to right himself. "Remember I could have done this any time in the past year," Bucky says, barely interested. It's fucking aggravating. As if Sam is so little of a threat he doesn't even need to pay that much attention.
"Let me go." He tries, once again, to break free from Bucky's grip. Doesn't attempt any other move, because then they would be actively fighting, and - Bucky's eyes keep getting drawn to the bed, and then back again, as if - as if he wants Sam to actively engage in combat, just to see what would happen. The blood is rushing through Sam's ears. He still thinks he can't breathe; or maybe he's forgotten. Just exhale. There we go.
Bucky lets him go abruptly, leans over to the bed to pick up Sam's gun, hands it back to him. "Rather you than him though," he says, and Sam's not sure what he means, entirely.
"Asshole," he mutters, and the side of Bucky's mouth just quirks.
*
Sam thinks: at the other end of this, once they step off the transport, they’ll be living together. He pictures a chemical lab. Do not store in proximity. Potentially volatile.
The Avengers compound turns out to mostly be admin and routine: a scheduled timetable. Mealtimes, therapy, de-programming, Steve, the dumb asshole, with assurances Bucky is not a prisoner. Sure, all that, then.
The taut, twanging pull of tension that has bound them, tugged Sam around the world for months and months, isn’t worn out by daily mundanity. Instead, it becomes a constant crackling. Snapping and throwing off sparks. Glares and barbed comments. Bucky hasn’t stopped looking hunted. He snarls at Sam for following him, looking at him, existing.
The tension breaks, sometimes. Brushing past each other in a hallway leads to shoving. Snide comments when they end up in the mess at the same time almost leads to an out and out yelling match. Bucky slams him into a wall and tells him to fuck off.
When it next breaks, Bucky pulls him into a storage closet, away from witnesses, presses a metal arm against his throat, and rips into Sam like that.
Sam’s almost used to being yanked through a door for a dose of vitriol when it finally happens. Bucky is angry in Sam’s face one second, and they’re kissing the next.
Something has started. Sam feels it in the gap between his conviction that he should cut this off, and the knowledge, sitting deep in his bones, that he won’t. Sam feels powerless to stop it.
*
They’ve kissed and Sam doesn’t know what to do with that at all. He’s been carrying a low, heavy feeling since then. Maybe it’s dread. But sometimes it sits in his gut like the first day he ever jumped out of a plane. The sensation that held him fixed in place all the way from take off to that last moment, right before the terror and elation of falling.
*
Sam is hyperaware of Bucky the moment he spots him coming the other way up the hall, everything else fading into the background. Aware of Bucky’s eyes on him. Aware when Bucky’s jaw tightens. Aware that Bucky is going to reach for him, as soon as they’re close.
Then they’re in an empty meeting room. One of the small ones that’s used for one-on-one debriefs.
"Get the fuck off me," Sam spits.
Bucky’s hand presses hard into Sam’s shoulder. "Stop watching me."
"You’re a murder machine with the stability of a bag full of cats, letting my guard down doesn’t exactly sound like a smart play."
"It doesn't make a difference if your guard is up," Bucky says, eyes narrowing. Faster than Sam can even track, Bucky’s hand is around his throat. Cool metal, unyielding.
Sam’s eyes get stuck on Bucky’s mouth, and he can feel himself starting to get hard.
Thinks of Bucky kissing him, sharp teeth and rough edges.
Bucky smirks.
And then they’re kissing again.
*
Sam spends days on edge. Like he’s waiting for it, looking out for it. Just a matter of time.
"You’re fucking following me now? Can’t get over not having caught me yourself, so now you’re tailing me around here too?" Bucky asks, nostrils flaring. "Are you worried I might crack?"
"We live in the same compound. We’re going to use the same hallways sometimes. And you’re already cracked," Sam bites out.
"I know when I’m being followed. Unlike you, I’m actually good at this." Bucky stares at him. "Did you want me to pull you in here? Is that it?"
He grabs Sam’s dick through his pants.
Maybe Sam knows that Bucky usually takes this hallway to get from his afternoon therapy session to the mess hall. Maybe Sam chose to take this route on purpose. He’s not following Bucky around, that would be weird. He might have found him, once or twice, though.
Sam’s dick is unmistakably hard under Bucky’s hand.
"Get the fuck off me," he says.
Then they kiss, and it’s brutal.
They kiss, and grind against one another, until Sam comes in his pants like a teenager. When Sam’s done, Bucky pulls out his cock and jerks himself a couple of times before coming over the hem of Sam’s t-shirt.
Sam feels filthy and used, and when Bucky tucks himself away and turns to leave, Sam says, "This won’t happen again," and it sounds like a joke, even to him.
*
It happens again. And again.
*
Sam isn’t sure, anymore, exactly how many times he’s said "This will never happen again." They both know what it means.
*
Bucky starts showing up on Sam’s daily routes around the compound too. That’s both better and worse.
Sam’s on his way upstairs to a briefing, already two steps up, when he feels Bucky hand around his wrist and suddenly he’s being yanked backwards. He almost falls on his ass, but Bucky grabs him by the shoulder and sets him upright with an irritated huff, like it’s a character flaw that Sam’s subject to the force of gravity.
He drags Sam behind the stairs, a dark nook. Leans back against the wall and pulls Sam against him, kissing him hard, biting at Sam’s lips. Then his hand is at Sam’s shoulder, pushing downward. Sam goes to his knees. He couldn’t resist that pressure if he wanted to. He can’t make himself want to, either.
He’s already on the floor, staring up, when he says, "I have to be at a fucking briefing in five minutes."
"I don’t care," Bucky says. "You don’t care either."
"Bucky," Sam says in a warning tone. Equal parts angry and turned on.
"Fine," Bucky says, taking his hand off Sam’s shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go to your meeting, then."
Somehow, Sam hadn’t expected that. He stares up at Bucky for a long moment, telling himself to get up and walk away. Just get up and walk away. He reaches for Bucky’s fly, instead.
Bucky smirks down at him while Sam is getting his cock out. So fucking smug that Sam wants to punch him. Wants anything but for Bucky to just stand there and see him, right now. Shame coils in his gut as he gets Bucky’s dick in his mouth, hot and heavy.
Bucky keeps his arms crossed as Sam sucks him. Doesn’t touch him. Just stands there, like he’s getting fucking serviced, and Sam misses the pressure of Bucky’s hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. Sam wishes he hadn’t said anything. Wishes the sick sense of shame didn’t feel so good. Eventually he can’t take it, gets his own cock out too and jerks himself off at Bucky’s feet.
When they’re both done, Bucky taps him on the cheek and says, "You can go to your meeting now."
Then Bucky just leaves, and it takes Sam a minute, after he’s gone, to stand up.
*
He doesn't notice the bruises at first, just the aches. But they could also just be from the training, from the first missions with the team. Except the one on his shoulder that’s definitely in the shape of a hand. Bucky, pushing him down to his knees. The bruises on his hips: Bucky, shoving him into the wall. Sam doesn’t have to turn around to know there are bruises on his back too. The marks on his wrists: Bucky, dragging him off.
Maybe he should have a word about it to the guy, next time - well, next time it happens, which it clearly isn’t going to, clearly.
Except it does, and Sam doesn’t say a word.
*
Bucky twists Sam’s wrist, hard, and Sam says "No, get the fuck off me," when Bucky drags him away anyway, his grip unbreakable, as usual. It’s not the first time Sam’s said no, not the first time Bucky's not listened, not the first time Sam’s so hard all he wants is for Bucky to touch his cock or to get down on his knees so Bucky can shove his cock in his mouth.
Bucky's thumb presses against Sam’s jugular as he jerks him off, his hand squeezing, and Sam comes, harder than he can remember in recent memory. Bucky doesn’t stop squeezing, and the fear rises in Sam like a bubble, light and hysterical. There’s a strange expression on Bucky's face as Sam tilts his head, pushing his throat into Bucky’s hand.
*
It gets better. It gets worse.
Bucky leaves scratches on Sam's thighs, right below his hip, with one hand, or the other. He seems to find the differences in the type of marks they leave behind fascinating. He bites down and sucks on the delicate parts of Sam's body and Sam squirms, hard like he’s never been before in his life.
Bucky taps his fingers, idly, metal against Sam's hipbone, and even that hurts, and when he smiles it's just bloodied teeth - Sam's blood - and it's fucking beautiful, it's fucking sunshine, and Sam comes.
Sam always comes.
*
On mission, a rifle shot whizzes past Sam's cheek, leaves an ugly mark against the bone, and Sam thinks of Bucky, loses control of the wings, briefly, spinning around helplessly until he manages to center himself again. Blame it on the near miss later, but that's not it. He's had near misses before.
Later, Bucky spots him talking to Nat, marches forward to grab him by the shoulders, pulls him away. Sam protests, because of Nat, mostly, but Bucky laughs, mutters, "She already knows, you fucking idiot." Sam uses his other hand to futilely try to get Bucky to release his grip, and Bucky says, mild, "My favorite thing about you, Sam, is how you keep fighting. I think most people quit, at this point."
In one of their spots, Bucky's clearly unhappy, tilting Sam's head to the left and tutting at the mark. "That was a rifle shot," he says, and sounds mad, as if it's Sam's fault somehow he got shot at and couldn't quite avoid it.
Sam tries for a grin, says, "You should see the other guy."
Bucky just frowns. "That’s not funny."
"No, really though. Wanda got him. Did you drag me all the way in here just to waste my time about some dumb sniper miss, Bucky?"
The backhand is sudden and sharp, right over the mark, sending him to his knees. Sam holds up a hand as Bucky advances, pulling him up off his feet by the collar to slam against the wall. "Stop, just stop," Sam says.
Bucky releases him then, and Sam falls back onto his knees. He blinks through the shock of the pain, still radiating up his cheek, through the tears. Can't catch his breath. He opens his mouth involuntarily on a moan, and Bucky is grabbing him by the neck, then shoving his cock down Sam's throat, turning the moan into a startled noise of protest. Sam's mouth waters at the taste of salt.
Bucky stretches Sam's jaw wide open, his fingers pressed into the wound, digging in - the pain is almost transcendental, and Sam can almost breathe into it. Finds a calmness despite Bucky's inability to even fuck his throat with any kind of a rhythm that suggests he knows what the fuck he's doing, or what the fuck he wants, beyond fucking Sam up. But maybe that's the goddamned point then, and Sam can't decide if that makes it better or worse. Distantly, he's aware he's come, made a mess of himself just because of this, but his own orgasm also seems beside the point, really. He ends up with his palms on Bucky's thighs, steadying them both.
Bucky finally, finally comes, does it on Sam’s cheek and then licks it off him, biting at his face, and Sam’s sure his face is just a mess of blood and come and spit. Then Bucky tilts Sam's head back, as if examining his handiwork, and his thumb ghosting over the ruined flesh is gentle, the look on his face surprisingly soft. Sam fights the urge to twist away, but it goes on for too long and finally he just growls and turns his head, and Bucky lets him go.
*
In a meeting, Nat tilts her head: "I swear that graze wasn’t so bad, Wilson."
Sam just shrugs.
Steve tuts, leans close. "Yeah, that’s bad. Maybe go see Dr. Cho."
"I’m fine," Sam grits out, annoyed, knows Steve probably won’t leave it alone until he goes.
Between Steve and Bucky, Sam can’t tell, sometimes, who annoys him more.
*
Bucky prowls around the campus like a lone wolf; his reputation precedes him in a place full of former spies and soldiers. It doesn't seem to bother him. Or maybe it does, it's not like Sam has a direct line on the guy's mental state just because they fuck sometimes.
Steve says, "I know it's hard, Sam, for most folks here, because of what he's done, but he was my friend my entire life. He was always there for me. I know he’s doing the best he can."
"Sure," Sam says, and thinks of the pleasure in Bucky's eyes as he fucking grinds into Sam's wrist until Sam falls to his knees in pain. Was that the same boy that helped Steve Rogers spit-shine his fucking shoes? That Sam's fucked up enough to enjoy it is not the fucking point.
"He always tries when he’s offered any support. I asked him how I could help him deal better, and he mentioned he likes to shoot, so I gave him access to one of the ranges, privately. Did you know he had a -"
"90 percent kill rate, yeah I may have heard that once or twice." Steve ignores or doesn't notice Sam's tone; that's on him, then. That bullet, only just kissing his face when it could have killed him, pops into Sam’s mind unbidden. He isn’t quite sure why he asks: "When, exactly?"
"Ah, actually, now. He should be close to finishing up. Hey, speaking of time. I need to go make myself useful - Nat needs me to go over the mission specs for tomorrow. Some last minute changes, I’ll debrief you in the morning." He turns to face Sam as he leaves, says, "Hey, I see you've still not gone to see Dr. Cho. Come on, Sam. I don't want to have to write you up."
There's a smile on his face as he walks away; Sam knows he won't, and also that Sam’s definitely not going.
He's about 25 percent certain that Bucky's come is embedded inside his skin or something. Dr. Cho will run some nano-tech scan and it'll spit out some awfully confusing data. Sam's just not gonna, that's all.
He hears Bucky before he sees him, the steady twack-twack-twack of the rifle going off. It's almost dusk, so visibility isn't that great. There should be recruits coming in for night training soon, Sam figures.
He can't see Bucky at all - why is even this 'small' range so fucking huge, why does Stark have to do everything in goddamned excess, so he keeps walking behind the range, it's a combat zone, really, and doesn't notice that it's gone completely silent until someone says: "Bang."
Sam turns around as Bucky lowers his rifle. "You're dead. Good job, Sam, on watching your six, once again."
"Good thing you weren't actually trying to kill me."
"I was tempted," Bucky says, calm. Livid. "What the fuck are you doing here? I only get an hour a week."
"Just wanted to see if the great Howling Commando is as good as the museums say he is." Bucky's finger twitches on the lowered rifle, and for a moment Sam thinks he's actually going to raise it. Instead he just rolls his eyes, then walks over to grab Sam by the wrist.
"Come on, let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"Armory - the recruits just left it, they'll be on the range in a few. Can't you fucking walk faster."
"No, Bucky, I actually fucking can't," he's half dragged away anyway, and then they're in the armory, and Bucky's shoving him against a wall before settling the rifle down nearby.
Sam slides down the wall as Bucky approaches him, until his ass hits the floor, and then Bucky's shoving his knees apart and kneeling in between them, edging forward so he can undo Sam's jeans. Sam does the same with Bucky's, and there's a warning in Bucky's eyes as he slides their cocks together, because now Sam can actually hear them, the recruits that are probably right outside, could come into the armory anytime. But it's Bucky who shoved him in here to begin with, mad about - what? Sam watching him destroy little paper targets? Who cares, really. Plus Sam didn't actually see Bucky shoot anything.
Bucky's breaths are shallow, he's leaning over Sam, kissing him every few seconds, nothing particularly deep, just. Kisses. Sam bites at him, impatient, which pays off when Bucky takes Sam's wrist with his free hand, pulling it up above Sam's head. That’s good, that’s better, Sam’s shimmying up into Bucky's fist. "Yeah, great, just - like that."
Bucky pulls back to look at Sam, then releases Sam’s wrist, moves his arm as if to backhand him across the graze on his face again.
"Nowhere it’s obvious," Sam cuts in. "I don’t want to have to explain how I got marks on my face to fucking everyone who decides it’s their business."
After a moment’s consideration, Bucky nods, sighing, as if Sam’s made a completely unreasonable request he’s being forced to accommodate, instead of Sam just wanting to keep this thing going without inviting interference.
Bucky seems to take his words to heart though. Resumes the motion of his hand wrapped around Sam's cock, his other hand finding bruises from that last mission. Pressing down on a mark on Sam’s neck; curling his hand around Sam’s forearm over a scrape. Sam strung tighter and tighter as he hisses, bites down on pain, on tears. Bucky’s face is pure satisfaction as he sees the red marks he leaves around each bruise, and Sam knows that tomorrow darker bruises will blossom, erasing the work of others. "Better," Bucky says, almost to himself.
Sam comes unexpectedly, and then Bucky comes too, shuddering and then collapsing into Sam, shoulders against Sam's chest. Sam struggles to catch his breath, finally does, but then Bucky's still on him, as it starts to get sticky, uncomfortable.
"Come on, Bucky," Sam says, shoving at him with his free hand, because Bucky's taken Sam's other wrist again, pressing it up once more above his head. "Get off me already."
Bucky finally listens to Sam, but not before nuzzling at him for an overly long minute, shoulders digging into Sam, making Sam feel like he can’t breathe, making him struggle unsuccessfully to escape. Bucky looks pissed as he drags Sam to his feet, shoves him back against the wall, but the pressure immediately releases for Sam, and he can afford a crooked grin, thrown carelessly at Bucky’s angry face.
Then Bucky’s twisting Sam’s caught wrist, using it to haul Sam close, kissing him hard, relentless. The angle means Sam’s wrist fucking burns, and then Bucky’s other hand is on Sam’s cheek, the bruised one, and ow, but Sam can’t do anything but take it until Bucky’s done, which seems like forever, shoving him back casually and releasing his wrist.
"Don’t fucking come here again," Bucky mutters, and Sam can only tenderly touch his own cheek to see if it’s bleeding again, and of course it is, what a dick. "You should take better care of your face."
"This only happened because of you, man, the wound was already closed, what the fuck, Bucky?" Bucky’s face turns mutinous, and again Sam has no idea why he’s so mad all of a sudden. Must be because it’s a day ending with a Y.
"You’re so stupid," Bucky snaps, and then he’s spinning around, is gone before Sam can even insult him in return.