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“Do you run, Barnes?”
Sam Wilson asks Bucky this at five-thirty on a Sunday in August, visible as little more than an outline in the door frame to Bucky’s room in the gray morning light. A slap followed by a sad little whistle comes from the phone in Bucky’s hand – the inevitable result of taking his eyes off Faby for half a second.
“Not if I can help it,” Bucky says, dimming the screen and tossing the phone down on the bed next to him.
“You still playing that stupid game?” Sam asks. “You know the guy who made it took it down, right? Said it was too addictive.”
“I can quit any time I like.” Bucky looks more closely at Sam now that his eyes are adjusting to the dim pre-dawn light. He’s in shorts and a tight shirt – possibly his under armor – and he’s wearing one of those stupid runners belts with the miniature water bottles attached to it. “Why the hell are you going for a run now? Sun’s not even up yet.”
“I’m training for the marathon, trying to push for a new PB, and today’s my weekly long run. Thought I’d try the Brooklyn stretch since I’m in the area, you know. I’m aiming for twelve miles in an hour and twenty, which means I have to average just over seven minutes a mile.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows, swiftly giving up on trying to process all that. “My condolences, buddy,” he says, picking up his phone again.
“Yeah, so, I could use a rabbit,” Sam says, and for a brief moment, everything about this whole situation makes perfect sense to Bucky, because clearly, he’s dreaming. “As in, a pacesetter,” Sam adds.
Yeah, okay, it’s back to making no sense at all.
“Are you seriously asking me to be your running buddy?” Bucky asks. “When Steve Rogers is right there,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the wall behind him. “Also in the habit of going for jogs at stupid o’clock in the morning.”
“Steve is in the habit of running at the leisurely pace of forty miles an hour,” Sam says flatly. “Besides, he’s on a mission. Has been for the past couple of days if you hadn’t noticed.”
It’s true: Steve has been gone, and Wilson’s been Bucky’s only company since Friday. Not that he’s complaining – he lets Bucky sleep all day long without giving him hell about it, doesn’t so much as blink when Bucky hauls out half the pans in the kitchen cabinet to make dinner at ten o’clock at night, and makes a mean drip brew. Besides, he’s real easy on the eyes, and okay, it’s not like Bucky hadn’t noticed before, it's just that lately he’s… Well, he’s noticed himself noticing.
“Anyway, forget I asked,” Sam says, pushing away from the door frame. “Thought you were tired of being cooped up, is all.”
Sam disappears from view, and Bucky is left staring at the space he just occupied. His legs move, seemingly of their own accord, and he’s halfway off the bed before he even realizes what he’s doing. And once he’s started, he figures he might as well just keep going, so he picks up a hoodie from the top of the ever-growing pile on the desk chair and pulls it over his head as he stumbles toward the door. In the second and a half that he’s tangling with the sweatshirt, he manages to stub his toe on the bed, sending it skidding sideways across the floorboards with a loud squeak.
“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he can hear the sound of the front door opening. “Sam, wait,” he calls, limping out into the hallway.
“What?” Sam says, fingers resting on the handle. “Change of heart?”
Bucky fishes a rubber band out of the flower pot filled with random crap that they keep on the chest of drawers near the door and quickly ties his hair back. “Yeah, fuck it, I’ll be your bunny,” he says, kicking around in the pile of shoes for his sneakers.
Sam snorts a laugh. “It’s…” He laughs again, shakes his head. “Okay, yeah. That’s excellent. My running bunny. Come on then.”
“You any good at keeping an exact pace?” Sam asks once they're outside. He jumps up and down then jogs in place for a couple of steps.
"You know I'm not supposed to leave the house, right?" Bucky says.
"Yeah, but you do it anyway."
"I do," Bucky admits.
It’s a gray area, because Bucky is both wanted for multiple murders and technically deceased, both a POW released after decades of imprisonment, and a defecting soldier charged with treason. The whole case is caught up in a Gordian knot of bureaucracy that so far has been immune to swords from either side, and voluntary house arrest is the temporary solution that’s become more of a permanent limbo as the weeks have worn on.
"And remember, I already caught you twice, Barnes,” Sam says. “You run off now, I’d just catch you again, only this time I'd be pissed about it. Now, can you be a bunny or not?"
“Just over seven minutes to a mile?” Bucky asks, and Sam nods. Bucky considers the Brooklyn map, the familiar layout of the streets and does some quick mental math. “You got it,” he says, and they set off, leaving the sidewalk and taking advantage of the empty streets.
It’s one heck of a morning, no two ways about it. The air is high and clear, no signs yet of the oppressing heat that’s been blanketing the city daily for the past couple of weeks. Bucky’s been sleeping through most of it, blasting the AC and keeping the blinds closed, but it lingers far into the evenings, turning the air souplike and sticky. Right now though, it couldn’t be more perfect, the first rays of sun kissing the rooftops and turning the sky all iridescent pinks and yellows.
Running isn’t so bad either, even if Bucky wouldn’t ever do it for fun. But he doesn’t mind this, keeping an even pace while he sneaks sideways glances at Sam. With his broad shoulders and muscled thighs, Sam has more of a traditional sprinter’s build than one suited to long-distance running, but he could probably finish a marathon out of sheer stubbornness even without the training, Bucky reflects.
“Okay, you’re full of shit,” Sam says after a while, glancing down at his GPS watch.
“What?”
“First mile in six thirty,” he says, panting lightly. “That’s way off target. I thought it felt fast.”
“Sam,” Bucky says, turning around to jog backwards for a few steps. “How the fuck am I supposed to know exactly how fast–”
“I don’t know! I thought maybe it was part and parcel of your former Hydra assassin semi-cyborg skillset. You said ‘I got it’–”
“Yeah, but–”
“–when you clearly didn’t.”
Sam slows to a halt and starts fiddling with his watch. His forehead is glistening a little, and there's a disgruntled furrow between his eyebrows that Bucky feels he could have done something to prevent.
“Look, if you set a pace, I can probably keep it,” Bucky says.
That much is true – he’s frighteningly well attuned to his own heart rate, as well as to various other vitals; one of the perks of his new life in relative freedom is getting to eat two whole bags of potato chips, feeling his sodium levels rise along with his blood pressure, and then eating another one just because.
“Okay, let’s try that,” Sam says, and starts jogging again.
This time, it works like a charm, and they clock their next mile at seven minutes and twelve seconds, the one after that at seven minutes and nine seconds, and each one after within a five second window. On the eighth mile, Sam starts grimacing.
“We’re going too fast again,” he says.
“Nope,” Bucky says. “You’re just getting tired.”
“I’m not getting tired.”
“You're wasting precious oxygen complaining, Wilson.”
“Fuck you,” Sam groans. His GPS watch beeps and he glances down at it.
“Well?”
“Seven thirteen,” Sam says tersely.
“Told you,” Bucky says.
“There was an incline, all right?”
An hour later, they’re sitting on a bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park, wolfing down breakfast bagels while watching downtown Manhattan stir from its uneasy Sunday slumber.
“When’s the marathon? November?” Bucky asks.
“Yeah, November second.”
“That’s months away.”
“I want to beat my old time,” Sam explains. “And the old time was set by young me.”
“And you run every day?”
“Nah, gotta get rest days in. I try to make five days a week. And I only do long runs once a week.”
“Huh.”
Bucky chews his lip, thinks about how ridiculously off-brand it would be of him to suggest they do this again next week, maybe even tomorrow, or the day after, or whenever Sam’s going for another run. He’s already professed his dislike of running a handful of times in the past couple of hours, not only to rile Sam up, but because it’s also technically true. And yet here he is, trying to think of some excuse to do it again. Sam looks over at Bucky, squinting a little in the sunlight, and Bucky suddenly feels strange, off-keel somehow.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” Sam says.
Bucky grunts, a non-committal noise, and busies himself with scrunching up the bagel wrapper, then sips his coffee in stubborn silence.
Two days later, Sam is back to knock on the door frame to Bucky’s room at dawn, and he does it again the day after, and the day after that, and at the end of the week, when it’s time for the next long run, Bucky's already lacing his sneakers up by the time Sam comes out of his room.
When they come back that morning, they're greeted by a duffel dumped on the doormat and a familiar, round case wedged in between the wardrobe and the shoe rack.
“Oh, Steve’s back,” Sam observes.
Bucky grimaces. “If he gives me shit for leaving the house, I’m blaming you,” he says.
Steve, as it turns out, has better things to worry about.
“You got up at five to go running?” Steve says, cereal sliding off his spoon and splashing back into the milk in his bowl. “Who are you and what have you done with Bucky?”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Sam says as he helps himself to coffee. “He doesn’t get up – he stays up.”
“I’m a certified night owl,” Bucky says. “I took one of those online personality quizzes.”
“You know he’s addicted to Flappy Bird as well?” Sam says, tilting his chin towards Bucky. “It’s becoming a problem.”
“All things considered? Not a huge problem,” Steve says, then shoves a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.
“I like the main character,” Bucky shrugs. “He reminds me of Sam.”
Steve snorts, sending a spray of milk across the table, and Sam works his middle finger free of the mug handle, waving it happily at Bucky. Bucky flashes him a grin and flips both of his up in response as he walks backwards out of the kitchen towards the bathroom.
“If you use up all the hot water again I swear to god,” Sam calls after him.
That night, Bucky is sitting next to Sam on the couch, trying and failing spectacularly to watch some movie that Sam’s engrossed in. He’s feeling uneasy again, and he has been, on and off for the past few days. To figure out why, and because going through the motions is oddly comforting, he gives up on the TV and turns his focus in on himself.
He starts at his feet, feels the weight of them against the carpet, then moves swiftly up his calves and thighs until he’s made sure everything is in good condition. It is. His vitals are healthy, and his breathing is steady and calm, but his heart rate is a little elevated. He’s pleasantly full after a relatively healthy meal, and he’s not thirsty either. He had a good sleep for once, and he doesn’t need to piss, or anything else, although it kind of feels a little like it, like something in his belly is threatening to lurch, but doesn’t. In short, there’s nothing obviously wrong with him, and yet he’s antsy, his palms almost sweaty with it.
“Okay, that’s my cue,” Sam says, shaking Bucky from his almost meditative state. Sam stretches with a groan, and when Bucky turns towards the TV, he can see that the credits have started rolling.
“Hitting the sack already?” Bucky asks.
“Yeah, I’m heading back to DC tomorrow, gonna try and beat the traffic.”
Sam’s words make Bucky’s stomach drop with disappointment, and like a counterweight in a lift, his heart flies up to sit high in his throat, suddenly hammering away, struck with the knowledge of exactly what it is that ails him.
“You okay, man?” Sam asks, frowning. “You look a little…”
“Uh, yeah” Bucky says. “Actually, no. Yeah, just…” he pauses, rubs his side briefly. “Something I ate, probably.”
Half in a daze, he mumbles some excuse, gets up and makes his way to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. There, he flops down on the bed and closes his eyes, swearing softly to himself. How long has it been? Seventy-something years, he reckons, even though he only saw them in red-hot, blazing fragments between months of crystalline unconsciousness. But seventy-something years since his body last felt like this, nerves humming and the chemicals in his brain all out of whack in a way that makes him almost sick with it.
Evidently it’s all been buried long enough for him to forget what it feels like. What infatuation feels like.
"You know Sam?" Bucky says to Natasha.
They're almost alone in the smallest screen at the Alpine in Bay Ridge, two seats left empty between them to hold the mountain of snacks and drinks they brought to last them through the night’s double feature of Anna Karenina and Camille. If Bucky squints and ignores the brand new padded cushion on his seat, he can almost pretend like he's eighteen again, feverish with the thought of moving to Hollywood, starting a career as an actor, and winning Greta Garbo's heart.
Natasha frowns before turning slowly away from the movie to face him.
"Do I know Sam," she says flatly.
“Yeah. Wilson.”
She narrows her eyes. “Did he kick you in the head again?”
“That never happened,” Bucky says automatically, even though he does remember it – vividly by now.
It’s been a couple of weeks since Sam left for DC, to hold some kind of introductory activities for new volunteers at the VA, where he still works occasionally. And Bucky… Well, the whole situation is eating him up inside, is the problem.
He’s spent what’s probably an unhealthy amount of time looking Sam up online, poring over sparse social media profiles and a handful of local newspaper articles from Louisiana (old ones, about his fleeting baseball career) and DC (more recent ones, about his work at the VA, including one featuring a black-and-white shot of Sam wearing reading glasses that now haunts Bucky).
And then there are the blurry, grainy photos of Sam in his Falcon suit, usually accompanied by wildly inaccurate speculation about the identity of the anonymous daredevil; by now, the number of hours Bucky has spent browsing gossip blogs is threatening to give him brain rot.
So far he's resisted the temptation to probe Steve for information, because he knows that it's only going to lead to endless teasing. Besides, he doesn’t think he could face being in the room with the both of them again if Steve knew his predicament. But Natasha…
"What about Sam?" she says. She’s watching him with unabashed curiosity, chasing the straw of her soda with her lips.
And the thing about Natasha is that while Bucky absolutely doesn’t want her to know either, she will. Most likely the next time she’s in a room with the both of them again. At least this way, he can control the narrative.
“Is he, you know. Is he seeing anyone?”
Natasha grows still, and if he’d been anyone else, he wouldn't have noticed the sudden flash of hesitation before she composes her face. But he’s not anyone else, and she knows he’s not, and so her eyes twinkle with amusement for a moment before turning sharp and stern.
“James…” she says.
“Don’t.”
She sips her soda thoughtfully. “Why don’t you ask him?” she asks. The look on his face must speak for itself, because she adds: “You don’t have to ask in a suggestive way. Just, like. Make conversation.”
“You must have looked him up,” Bucky says.
“I wasn’t looking for information about his love life, Barnes.”
“But you probably found it.”
Natasha cocks her head a little, making a face that says “yes, and it’s none of your business,” then turns back to the movie.
“Come on,” Bucky says, loud enough that someone a few rows back shushes him. “Just, something,” he adds under his breath. “ Anything. Is he even into guys?”
She doesn’t answer, eyes firmly trained on the screen, and what the quick up-down of her eyebrows means is clearly for her to know and him to keep wondering about.
Bucky spends the next few days mentally gearing up to ask, dreaming up scenarios and topics where he could bring it up without being too obvious about the whole thing. But when Sam finally gets back from DC, asking him about his dating preferences is suddenly the last thing Bucky wants to do.
There’s no sugar-coating it; Sam looks like shit.
More to the point, he looks like someone who hasn’t eaten or slept properly in weeks. His skin is dull, he’s got dark circles under his eyes, and the only greeting he offers Bucky is a grunt as he passes the kitchen on the way to his room. Bucky gets to his feet, but before he can make it out into the hallway, he hears the sound of Sam’s door shutting, followed by a heavy thud, as if Sam’s fallen straight into bed.
Bucky steps lightly over to the door, barefoot and soundless. He listens, can hear Sam drawing a shuddering breath and then letting out a slow sigh. Within minutes, his breathing has slowed into regular, soft snores.
Bucky checks his watch. It’s half past three in the afternoon.
“What’s up with Sam?” Bucky asks Steve that evening.
Sam hasn’t ventured outside his room yet, and Bucky has spent enough time tip-toeing around straining his ears to know he’s still out cold.
“He’ll be okay,” Steve says, shoveling a forkful of bibimbap in his mouth.
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
Steve chews thoughtfully. “We all deal with our crap in our own ways,” he says eventually. “And Sam’s dealing.”
The way he says it lets Bucky know that this is a dead end, that whatever Steve knows, he’s not about to share with Bucky.
Bucky presses his lips together, an irrational swell of jealousy rising up inside him: a sudden and petty reaction to the reminder that Steve and Sam are close, that they grew close in the months they spent out there looking for him. The year Bucky spent on the run felt necessary then. Now it feels like a wasted opportunity, like lost time he’ll never make up for.
He finishes his beef bulgogi in silence, then goes to find a marker pen, writes SAM in neat print on the third, unopened takeout container before placing it on Sam’s shelf in the fridge.
Even though he knows that the chance Sam will want to go running is infinitesimal, Bucky keeps his door ajar all night, impatiently waits for the knock on the frame. And miracle of miracles, at just past five in the morning, when Bucky’s six episodes deep in an HBO drama binge, Sam’s door creaks open. Bucky hits pause on his laptop and holds his breath, his heart suddenly racing.
A few moments later, he can hear soft noises as Sam moves around in the hallway outside, and it's clear that he's deliberately trying to stay as quiet as possible.
Bucky worries at his lip. Normally, he'd be bounding out of bed to pull his sneakers on, making some stupid and untrue remark to Sam about how he can't stand mornings, let alone morning people.
Instead, he sinks back on his pillows, listening as Sam presses down the handle to the front door, slowly, slowly before silently slipping outside. Whatever it is Sam's doing, he evidently wants to do it alone. Which is fine. Bucky is totally fine with that. Sam's dealing, he tells himself.
Sam's dealing, and so Bucky has to deal too.
When Sam comes back over an hour later, he's breathing hard as if exhausted from a sprint. A faint smell of fresh sweat drifts into Bucky's room when Sam passes it on his way to the bathroom.
Bucky falls asleep to the sound of the shower, to the light spilling in between the blinds.
He wakes up a few hours later, desperate to take a leak. As he stumbles back from the bathroom, he pauses in the opening to the kitchen. The takeout container labeled SAM is standing empty on the countertop next to a pair of used chopsticks.
Bucky turns towards Sam's room, listening intently until he picks up the slow, steady breaths from inside.
"I don't think he sleeps at night," Bucky tells Steve in a hushed voice that evening.
"You picked up on that, huh," Steve says.
And it strikes Bucky then that perhaps Sam is just as much of a morning person as Bucky is.
The next day, Sam’s race bib arrives. At least that's what Bucky assumes it is: a large envelope with The New York City Marathon printed in the top left corner. Bucky puts it on the kitchen counter, props it up against the coffee jar to make sure Sam doesn't miss it.
Sam doesn’t miss it.
When Bucky wanders into the kitchen that night in search of an early morning snack, the envelope is gone from the counter. Bucky is pleased about it for all of twenty seconds before he finds it unopened in the trash, crumpled up and soggy from being buried under two banana peels.
Bucky picks it out, carefully smooths it out and wipes it down, then puts it in his desk drawer.
Just in case.
The following three days, Bucky listens to Sam sneaking out before sunrise and coming home hours later, wheezing like he’s on the brink of death. He sleeps all day, and what he gets up to at night is anyone’s guess.
On the fourth day, Sam pauses outside Bucky’s room on his way out. Bucky waits in tense silence for a knock that never comes, but when Sam turns the handle without bothering to keep the noise down, Bucky takes it as a sign.
Bucky has to run fast, too fast, and he’s taking the risk of being noticed by the odd early commuter or nosy night owls peeking through the curtains to be able to catch up with Sam. When he does, Sam doesn’t say anything, just nods at him and presses on. Bucky follows. For once, he’s not the one setting the pace, and he has to widen his stride and keep running in earnest to stay at Sam’s side.
“We’re running way too fast,” Bucky observes.
“Too fast for what?” Sam pants.
“Your race, meatball,” Bucky jokes. Then, when Sam says nothing, he adds: “The marathon?”
Sam just shakes his head and goes even faster. Their feet are pounding against the sidewalk now, and Bucky can feel his pulse speeding up, not just from running, but because of the dread growing in the pit of his stomach.
Soon, Sam is sweating, gasping for breath, his chest heaving, but he doesn’t slow down.
“Sam,” Bucky says as they sprint across 5th Avenue and into Sunset Park, but Sam doesn't answer. “Sam,” Bucky repeats. “Slow the fuck down, alright?”
And Sam finally slows his steps, kicking up gravel from the momentum. He stumbles towards a nearby bench and slumps down on it, eyes closed and breathing so hard Bucky thinks he might choke.
“What record are you going for again?” Bucky says angrily. “First idiot to collapse in the gutter?"
In spite of everything, Sam laughs, coughing and out of breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.” He sighs and pulls the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe at his face, shiny with sweat and maybe something else, before looking at Bucky. “Come on, let’s go home.”
As the sun rises and the city starts shaking the sleep off its streets, they head back towards the apartment. They walk slowly now, past cafes that smell of warm pastries and coffee grounds, past newsracks being filled and the first yellow taxi cabs making their way towards JFK. They walk in silence, but when Sam yawns wide, Bucky glances at him sideways.
“Never would have guessed the Falcon was another one of those certified night owls,” he says.
“I’m not,” Sam says decisively. But then he adds: “Not always.”
“So why now?”
Sam screws his face up a little, shrugs. “No dreams, man. For some reason I only dream at night, so.” He shrugs again.
Bucky can relate, more than he cares to admit. He doesn’t tell Sam any of that, but on impulse he reaches out to clasp Sam’s shoulder in a silent show of sympathy. It’s only when he feels Sam’s warmth, his strong muscles under his fingers, that Bucky realizes that this is probably the first time they’ve ever touched – at least as friends. He half expects Sam to seize up or shrug him off, but instead he leans companionably into Bucky’s touch and gives him a brief smile.
It hits harder than it should, like a hot knife to the gut, and Bucky fumbles for something to say, something that might make the moment last a little longer, something that might make Sam smile at him like that again. But then it’s over, the chance fled as Sam looks down at his watch.
“Last mile in seven minutes flat?” he asks, jogging a few steps ahead.
With a grin, Bucky breaks into a run as well. “Only if you let me set the pace,” he says, punching Sam lightly on the shoulder as they set off down the street.
At four thirty the next morning, Bucky knocks on Sam’s door.
Sam opens with a frown. “What’s up?”
Bucky can see Sam’s laptop on the bed, recognizes the paused series on the screen.
“True Detective?” he asks. “No wonder you can’t sleep, Wilson.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Did you actually want anything? Other than to bitch about my binging habits.”
Bucky takes a breath, bracing for rejection. “Wanna go for a run?”
But Sam doesn’t say no. Instead, he breaks out that smile again, and it makes Bucky’s heart beat so loud he can hear it over the humming of the AC. He's sure Sam can hear it.
“Yeah, why not,” Sam says. “Let me just finish this episode, okay?”
“Course, take your time,” Bucky says, limbs all of a sudden turned to jelly with relief, and just as he’s about to step away from the door, Sam opens it a little wider.
“If you wanted to–” he starts.
“Okay, yeah,” Bucky says, and he steps inside Sam’s room like it’s nothing, like he’s normal about it, like this is a regular occurrence.
Sam’s bed is a queen size where Bucky’s is a double; just about big enough for the both of them. Bucky tries not to think about that too hard as he joins Sam, their backs against the headboard, a pillow between them for the laptop to rest on.
The next evening, Sam eats in the kitchen with Steve and Bucky for the first time in weeks, and when Steve is interrupted by his phone – the one Tony Stark programmed to have some kind of 1980’s music as a ringtone – and has to leave without so much as finishing his plate of pasta, Sam looks at Bucky almost shyly.
“True Detective?” he asks. “I’m trying to finish it before I head to DC on Thursday.”
This time, they don’t stop at one episode, or even two, and when Sam dozes off in the early hours of the morning, Bucky doesn’t wake him up to ask him to go running. Instead, he slowly eases himself up and out of Sam’s bed and goes back to his own room.
It’s only when he’s almost drifted off, head spinning with half-baked daydreams of kissing Sam into the mattress, that he realizes he could have just stayed, pretending to be asleep until he was for real, and spent the whole day in bed with Sam.
The pardon comes, sudden and unexpected, early one afternoon, with a knock on the door that Steve goes to answer, shortly followed by a blonde CIA agent striding into the kitchen.
She’s a pretty dame alright; she looks like someone Bucky could have taken for a tumble back in the days, had she been willing. Now Bucky gets to his feet and is already halfway out the window when a decidedly flushed Steve trails into the room and tells him to calm the heck down.
“This is Sharon,” he adds. “She’s with the feds but, ah, she’s a friend.”
Bucky doesn’t miss the way Sharon subtly rolls her eyes at that. So this is Peggy’s niece, he muses. Nearly seventy years in the ice, but trust Steve to immediately find another Carter to fawn hopelessly over.
“Sharon Carter,” says Bucky as he sinks back down in the chair. “Yeah, Steve’s told me about you.”
“Good things only, I hope,” Sharon says, her face impassive.
“Oh, that’d be an understatement,” Bucky says, flashing her a grin. Behind her, Steve proceeds to choke, presumably on his own tongue.
That at least makes her crack a smile of her own. “You boys are charming, aren’t you,” she says, “but I’m here on business.”
She reaches into the pocket of her suit jacket and pulls out an envelope.
“You’re a free man, Barnes,” she says, handing the letter to Bucky.
The grin fades on Bucky’s face as he takes it and turns it over in his hands. It’s official White House stationery, crisply embossed with the President’s own seal.
“What’s this?” he asks, because despite Sharon’s words, he doesn’t dare hope.
“It’s a presidential pardon,” Steve says from where he’s leaning against the door frame.
Both he and Sharon regard Bucky seriously, the flirtatious mood all but drained from the room. With trembling fingers, Bucky tears the envelope open, pulls the letter out, and scans the short few lines, traces the signature with his fingers.
“How–” he starts.
“I called in a few favors,” Sharon says. “And it didn’t hurt that Rogers is popular with the President’s grandkids.”
She glances Steve’s way, and Steve ducks his head down the same way he’s always done whenever a girl showed him the slightest bit of attention.
“Thank you,” Bucky says, plain and honest, and Sharon nods.
“Enjoy,” she says, fastening the button on her jacket. “And good luck getting all your documents in order. It took him the best part of a year,” she adds, looking at Steve again.
“Wait,” Bucky says as Sharon makes to leave. She stops and turns around, an eyebrow raised in question. “What does this actually mean?” he asks, motioning at the letter. “What can I… What am I allowed to do? I mean, I’m basically a walking, breathing weapon, right?”
Sharon smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. “You know, I’m not quite sure,” she says thoughtfully, before turning towards Steve. “Cap here never stopped to ask.”
The moment the door shuts behind her, Steve lets out an explosive breath.
“Did you have to say I’d been talking about her?” he says.
“Steve,” Bucky says. “Have you fucking seen yourself? Because I promise you, she has. What are you waiting for, just ask her out.”
“Okay, what the hell is going on?”
This is the first thing Sam says to Bucky when he comes back from DC, and no, Bucky probably couldn’t hide it if he tried – the wide grin, the way he can barely keep still.
“Let’s go for a run.” For some reason, this is what Bucky says instead of just telling Sam about the pardon.
“Now?” Sam glances at his watch. “It’s four in the afternoon, Buck. There’s people out there, and lots of them.”
“Now,” Bucky says.
It’s better than his first trip to the supermarket, better than squeezing in next to Natasha in a sold-out screen, better than taking the train out to Montauk and back just to smell the sea. He’s been free for three days already, but it still hasn’t sunk in properly. Now he can almost feel it as they weave in and out of the crowds, walking when they have to and jogging when they can on their way to Prospect Park.
They cross into the park and finally set off running on light feet. Sam keeps glancing over at Bucky, his confused smile lightning Bucky’s own up again, and all of a sudden he’s laughing, bubbling with it, and Sam laughs too, loud and long until they’re both out of breath and huffing.
“What’s going on?” Sam asks again, slowing to a halt and clutching at his side.
And it must be the heady rush of freedom making him all brave, because Bucky says: "Let me take you to dinner tonight.”
Sam blinks. “What? Where?”
“At a restaurant.”
“You mean out?” Sam asks.
“Out.”
“Like, out out?”
"I got the pardon," Bucky says, and he feels the corner of his mouth turn up in another smile.
Sam sucks in a breath, and then he reaches out and grabs Bucky's arm, pulling him into a tight embrace without any care for how their warm, sweaty bodies clash together.
"Fucking finally, huh?" Sam says, low in Bucky's ear, and between that and the heady scent of Sam's skin it's all Bucky can do to stay on his feet.
It doesn’t become as much of a dinner date as Bucky had been hoping for. Apparently booking ahead is a thing these days, and so they end up sitting at the bar of the local sushi place, ordering plate after plate of rolls and pieces that Bucky hasn’t seen outside of a plastic box before.
They get a bottle of Moët & Chandon too, ridiculously expensive and dug out from the very back of the fridge, but it tastes like sunshine and diamonds going down.
“Gotta be careful, drinking around super soldiers,” Sam says as Bucky refills their glasses. “Don’t want to be making a fool of myself while you’re still stone cold sober.”
He raises his glass and looks at Bucky over the rim of it, his eyes glittering playfully, and when Bucky hurries to reach for his own glass he knocks it over, flooding the bar mat with Champagne.
"Yeah, clearly there's no need to worry about that," Bucky says, flushing hot as he scrambles for a pile of napkins to mop up the worst of it. “But I guess getting completely sauced the week before a marathon isn’t great.”
“I’m skipping it,” Sam says. He sips his drink, and Bucky watches him carefully, trying to gauge his mood.
“I thought you liked running,” Bucky says. “That you had that old PB to beat.”
“I do. And I did. It’s just…” Sam sighs and trails a finger through the condensation on the glass. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now.”
Regret. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s regret he sees in Sam’s eyes when he drains the last of the Champagne.
“Okay,” Bucky says. “Okay, but what if it wasn’t.”
Back in the apartment, Sam stares at the envelope in Bucky’s hand. It’s still unopened and a little rumpled.
“You meddling son of a bitch,” Sam says. He shakes his head as if in disbelief, a smile spreading slowly across his face. The look he gives Bucky is both grateful and a little apologetic. “I’ll never beat my PB though,” he says.
“Why not?” Bucky asks.
“I quit my routine over a month ago, Buck. There’s no salvaging that in less than two weeks.”
“We can try,” Bucky says.
“Oh, it’s we now, is it?”
“Hell yeah,” Bucky says, putting on an offended voice. “If you think I’m gonna let all those miserable mornings go to waste, think again.”
Sam snorts a laugh and slaps Bucky’s arm lightly, and that makes Bucky crack as well, and he has to bite his tongue not to grin like a damn fool.
“Yeah, I bet you hated every second,” Sam says quietly, and Bucky is suddenly aware of how close they’re standing, how Sam isn’t pulling away at all, how he just stands there, leaving Bucky to drown in his eyes.
“You can do it,” Bucky says, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to Sam or himself anymore.
Sam sighs and pulls a face. “Need to get my sleeping habits in shape though.” He glances down at his watch. “Starting now, probably.”
The moment Sam’s out of the room, Bucky lets out a shaky breath and drags his hands down his face. Fucking idiot, he thinks. He paces the length of the room, listening to the distant sound of Sam running the tap in the bathroom, wondering what happened to the guy who could walk into any old joint and come out with whoever he pleased on his arm.
Once Sam’s out of the bath and back in his room, Bucky takes his turn. He tosses his shirt in the laundry basket angrily, stares at himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth and thinks about missed opportunities. He splashes water on his face, then pulls his hand through his hair a couple of times. All things considering, he's still a decent looking man, and he's pretty sure he'd still be decent in the sack too, given the chance. Or taking it.
“Idiot,” he says to the mirror, before opening the door and walking right into Sam.
“Hey,” Sam says, and the amused look on his face speaks volumes; clearly no super soldier senses were necessary for him to hear Bucky talking to himself.
But then Sam’s eyes briefly drop to Bucky’s bare chest, and there’s no mistaking the way he raises his eyebrows in appreciation before tearing his gaze away again.
“Wanna watch something?” he asks, nodding towards his room.
“What happened to getting your sleeping habits in shape?” Bucky says as he trails after Sam.
“You ever try sleeping with something on in the background?" Sam asks. "It's not ideal but…"
"It gets the job done," Bucky says, and a knowing look passes between them. Bucky hesitates, then says: "Also just someone else being there. Just in case."
He thinks back to those first few weeks, before Sam moved in with them. How Steve and Natasha had taken turns to sit with him, to gently shake him awake when needed.
Sam nods. “Makes a world of difference.”
They watch an episode of Narcos, which Bucky has already seen, because he’s seen every single R-rated show on the three streaming services they have, and when Sam says he’ll try to sleep, he puts the laptop on the floor instead of leaving it on.
“Want me to stay?” Bucky asks when Sam starts pulling his hoodie and sweats off. “I can take the chair,” he adds, meaning the sagging, stuffed armchair next to the window where Sam has left a pile of books.
“Just get in, Barnes,” Sam says as he slips under the covers.
So Bucky unbuckles his belt and lets his jeans drop to the floor, sending a brief, grateful thought to Bucky Barnes from four hours ago for getting enough hubris to wear his best boxers to a maybe-date.
As soon as Bucky gets in, Sam wordlessly works his arm in under Bucky’s and pulls himself close, burying his face in between Bucky’s shoulder blades. Bucky’s heart soars, and he fumbles for the hand Sam’s pressing against his chest. As Sam’s breathing grows slow and regular, Bucky thinks that if this is all they’ll ever do, it’s still more than enough.
Bucky doesn’t notice himself dropping off, but when he does, it’s to a night of deep, dreamless sleep – the best he’s had for as far back as he can remember. When he wakes up, it’s to Sam sitting on the side of the bed, stretching his arms above his head, his smooth, brown skin catching the sunlight, and Bucky’s heart feels so full it could burst.
Sam doesn’t bring it up, and neither does Bucky: the unspoken agreement that makes Bucky knock on Sam’s door after his shower that evening, and the next, and the next, to slip down under the covers next to Sam. Nothing happens – nothing but Sam’s chaste clinging and Bucky weaving their fingers together – but damn if that nothing isn’t just everything.
They run together, too, in the mornings, the crisp fall air turning their breath into clouds of smoke, and with each day, Sam’s splits look better.
“I’ll never be able to do this without my running bunny,” he jokes, breathless and grinning after their first long run in almost two months.
Bucky sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.
On the day of the marathon, Bucky slips into the throng after the bridge, at Fort Hamilton. It takes him a few minutes to find Sam, but he’s not the world’s deadliest assassin for nothing, and his tracking skills are still unparalleled.
“What the hell?” Sam says, laughing in disbelief when Bucky falls into step beside him. “How–”
“Save your breath and stay focused, Wilson,” Bucky interrupts him. “We’ve got a PB to crush.”
“Where the hell did you get a bib?” Sam huffs, ignoring Bucky. He glances at the flimsy square on Bucky’s chest. “Is that fake?”
“Don’t repeat that to Steve, he’ll take offense,” Bucky says, turning around and running a few steps backwards to let Sam get a look at it; Steve’s lettering is near impeccable, but the offwhite paper gives it away.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam splutters. “Is that handmade? It is, isn’t it. Haven’t you guys ever heard of printers?”
“I’ve heard lots, and none of it good. Now shut up and keep up,” Bucky says and takes off running.
They press on, through the streets of Brooklyn, across the bridge to Manhattan and up into the Bronx. In truth, it’s Sam who sets the pace, and while it’s punishing, it’s not unsustainable. Just before they reach Central Park, Bucky touches Sam’s shoulder, and after Sam nods in silent understanding, Bucky slows his steps, waits for an opportune moment, and then ducks under the ropes to disappear into the crowd.
The park is teeming with people, but Bucky buys a bottle of water and finds a spot near the finishing line where he waits, pacing anxiously as he looks around for Sam.
“We made it.”
Bucky spins around to face Sam, dripping with sweat and with a smile on his lips that could light up a whole building.
“You made it?” Bucky says, handing Sam the bottle.
“Fourteen and a half minutes faster,” Sam says, taking a quick drink before squeezing the bottle hard, splashing his face with water. “We made it.”
He turns the bottle around, playfully splashing some on Bucky too.
“You,” Bucky corrects, throwing a hand up to shield himself.
“We,” Sam says. “No, shut up,” he adds warningly when Bucky opens his mouth to protest.
Bucky grunts and makes a grab for the water, but Sam snatches it away, so he grabs Sam’s arm instead, wrenching the bottle out of Sam’s grip. “You made it,” Bucky says. “You–”
“Oh my god,” Sam says, and then he’s stepping into Bucky’s space, slipping his hand around Bucky’s neck and pulling him down into a kiss, messy and wet but determined, like he’s been thinking about it for a while. “You shutting up yet?” he mumbles against Bucky’s lips.
“No,” Bucky says, dropping the bottle and reaching up to cup Sam’s face, catching his lips in another kiss. “Nuh-uh.”
“No?” Sam says, and the next kiss is hungry and searching, swiftly turning heated when Sam parts his lips to let Bucky in.
“Never,” Bucky breathes when they break apart.
“Never?” Sam asks, eyes glittering beneath his lashes.
“Well,” Bucky says, tracing Sam’s jaw with his thumb. “You never know. You should definitely keep trying. Just in case.”